


And You Will Remember Me (Hopefully)

by miss_sonder



Series: Our Bones Long for Home [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aang (Avatar) Needs a Hug, Aang (Avatar)-centric, Aangst, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Azula (Avatar)-centric, Ballet, Bipolar Disorder, Blackmail, Blackmailing abusive parental figures, College, Coming of Age, Crimes but not that bad, Culture, DIY skateboard, Developing Friendships, Drug Abuse, Eating Disorders, Eco-Terrorism, F/F, F/M, Fencing, Food abominations, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Found Family, Gen, Ghosts, How Do I Tag, It's the mental illness luv, Literally most of this was written while I was in the hospital, M/M, MENSA, Mental Illness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranormal, Probably drug abuse, Religion, Road Trips, Scandal, Slow Burn, Some of the crimes are kinda bad, Spirit World, Spirits, Strained Friendships, That's right bitches, The gaang and then being little shits, They all need a hug, Trauma, Underground roomba fights, family doesn't have to be blood, the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 35,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26983090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_sonder/pseuds/miss_sonder
Summary: A coming of age story, childhood and recent trauma, relationships and their struggles, ghosts, and answering the question do you really think that friendships can last more than one lifetime?“The thing about Aang was that he always knew how to have fun. No matter the situation, circumstances, or even where they were; he would always find a way to at least enjoy himself. Even if something tragic were to happen to him--which it has--he would find the bright side to it. And that really pissed Zuko off. (Uncle would like him though. Uncle did like him.)”
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Mai/Zuko (Avatar), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Sokka/Suki (Avatar), Sokka/Yue (Avatar)
Series: Our Bones Long for Home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019886
Comments: 97
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based off of events in my life, mostly the end bits. Fun Fact: My best friend thought I was a bitch before we became friends, but I was persistent and now we have a blood pact together. Fun Fact II: I was on some pretty hardcore pain meds becuase my body is trying to kill me :)

The thing about Aang was that he always knew how to have fun. No matter the situation, circumstances, or even where they were; he would always find a way to at least _enjoy_ himself. Even if something tragic were to happen to him--which it has--he would find the bright side to it. And that really pissed Zuko off. (Uncle would like him though. Uncle _did_ like him.)

How could this kid--a bald, orphan monk with funny tattoos (Zuko didn’t actually think they were funny tattoos, especially after he read up on Aang’s culture)--be so damn positive? How was it, after facing so much, after having to carry the burden of an entire culture and more on his shoulders, was he able to roll with the punches? Why did people like this kid so much? Why did people _likeadmireadorelove_ this kid so much; a kid who was technology illiterate, who used such outdated slang, and had a fucking flip phone that he didn’t even know how to use for God’s sake (and not like him)?

So Zuko dealt with that bald kid the only way he knew, shouting and fighting. Aang never seemed to take it personally though, which pissed him off even further. 

“You’re just a kid!” Zuko always shouted. 

“Gee, Zuko, we’re the same age.” He’d always laugh. 

He had a nice laugh and that made Zuko hate him even more. 

The person Zuko hated the most though was himself. He knew that. But spirits be damned before he’d ever admit that. He buried that thought deep in his heart, a thought that weighed down his soul, a thought that darkened his mind (and made him wonder if he’d changed himself so drastically that if his mom were here, would she recognize him?), a thought that made his very bones ache. He never knew thoughts could make his bones ache, until now. 

“I just hate that kid.” Zuko said. 

“You hate everyone.” Mai drawled out. 

She kissed him then. _Maybe, just maybe, I don’t hate everythin_ g, Zuko had thought in the back of his head. He liked her kisses. He liked her long dark hair. He liked pale skin. He liked the way her lips would quirk up when he said something particularly witty, or dark, or maybe even both. He liked how she dressed in expensive clothes that were so avant garde she looked like art. He just liked Mai. 

He kissed her back. He always did. 

And then it happened. He wished he could say he didn’t know how it happened, that he couldn’t remember that night, but he did. 

It was late one night, Zuko and Azula were doing their usual bickering and homework. It was late, he remembered that because the stars were out and the moon barely peeped over the clouds, and it was after fencing practice. (He also remembered because he had to pick up Azula from ballet practice at 10:00 P.M. every night and to remind her to take her medication.) 

Their dad had walked in. Zuko tensed. He always did. He kept a straight face. 

“So,” Ozai had said. “You’re sixteen now.” 

Azula quieted down. She was smart. Zuko was smart. Zuko was also stupid when it came to his dad. 

“Yeah.” He answered. 

“I think you’re ready to start interning, I can get you a desk at the office.” Ozai said. He smiled. His smiles always held something viscous, something feral behind his perfect, white teeth. Like they would tear your flesh right off of your bones. Something terrible hid behind that smile.

Zuko was excited, he didn’t show it outwardly, but he _was_. He had given his dad a hesitant grin and a firm yes, he would like to do that. 

Then Azula said, “What should Zuzu wear, Dad?” 

Zuko knew that Azula was trying to be supportive in her own way. She was trying to be helpful. He knew that. He hated that. Because he couldn’t hate her, even if she brought him pain and misery, because she didn’t do that on purpose. 

“Business formal.” A pause. “Why don’t you go try something on?”

He did go and try something on. One of his nicer Armani suits, deep grey with red accents (he was always complimented when he wore it). He knew that his dad was trying to encourage him. To help him. To guide him in this tycoon way of life. In the back of his head though, a tiny voice whispered one word. _Trap_.

He came out. Azula smirked, it was the closest thing he would get to a smile he knew, and his dad began to frown. It happened slowly, so slow that Zuko thought he’d have a chance of survival, that he'd make it out with harsh words and maybe just a hit or two. He was wrong. 

He remembered screaming and Azula watching in fear. He remembers clawing at his dad’s hands, biting him even--the taste of his blood still haunts his nightmares--and doing anything to get away. He remembered thinking, _now I am the wild animal tearing flesh from bone_. His dad held him there, a tight and bruising grip on the back of his neck, his left side of his face being held in the fireplace, pressed into the flames. His screams had turned into harsh growls and the pain had begun to turn his vision a hot, hot white. 

Azula had stood there, frozen in fear, smirk slowly sliding off her face.

“Now you won’t look so much like your bitch of a mother.”

The thing about Zuko was that Aang never hated him. Sometimes he frightened him, mainly because he was worried about how someone so young could hold so much rage, and sometimes he made him feel sad. He never hated him though. 

At first, he hates to admit, he didn’t even notice Zuko’s absence. It took about a week before he noticed that he wasn’t be harassed by the angry teen any longer. He wasn’t too worried about it, Zuko had often taken vacations, sometimes for months at a time. Then he noticed his sister wasn’t there. Strange. 

It wasn’t until they finished the school year that Aang realized that something may be wrong, Zuko had never come back. (His sister had after a month or so, but she never bothered Aang too much, other than the hateful comment or two.) When he asked around, no one really had an answer. 

There were rumors of course. That he went back to Japan to see family or to go to school there. That he was finally let back into the boarding school he was expelled from. That he killed himself. Aang didn’t like those rumors. 

It was during summer break that Aang finally saw Zuko again. He was sipping tea and grimacing in an expensive tea shop. He was by himself and hadn’t seen Aang yet. Finally, he turned to yell at an old man, his uncle he later finds out, and Aang was filled with a hot rage (a rage he hadn’t felt in a long, long time) when he saw his face. He still says sutras for his anger when he thinks about it. The scar that covered his face was angry, red, wrinkled, unnatural and inhumane. His gut told him it wasn’t an accident. 

Aang smiled though and waved excitedly towards Zuko. He missed their banter, their fighting (although Aang never threw a punch), and their rivalry in chemistry class. He missed the way Zuko stood up against people who abused their power--teachers, coaches, administration--and he missed the way Zuko always volunteered to take care of the betta fish in homeroom. He just missed Zuko. 

“Hi Zuko!” Aang hollered across the shop. 

Zuko looked at him. His eyes widened. A scowl appeared and he turned away from him, acting as if he didn’t see him. 

“Zuko! It’s me, Aang!” 

“Shut up!” He finally shouted. 

Aang slid into the seat across from him and the rest was history. Their friendship started off rocky, but they soon became like brothers--bickering, fighting, adventures, and all. It was a strange dynamic, but one that worked. They found they needed each other. And that was that. 

“Zuko.” 

No response. 

“Zuko,” Aang said again. 

No response. 

“Zuko!” 

A grunt. 

“ _Zuko_ ,” Aang finally said. This time in a whisper. 

Zuko looked up from his laptop. He looked Aang in the eye. “This better be good.”

It took Aang a while to understand Zuko’s humor. It was dry, witty, and sometimes hard to tell if it was even a joke. It had also taken Zuko a long time to understand Aang’s sense of humor, he sometimes still cringed at the cheesiness of it. They knew now, though, each other’s quirks and eccentricities. 

Aang laughed. “I’ve decided where I want to go to college.”

Zuko knew, somehow, that he’d end up going to the same college. Even if he didn’t want to. He did, but that’s beside the point. Somehow fate always pushed them together and he wasn’t about to fight it, not any more. He did want to go to college with him though, not that he’d ever tell Aang that, so he only complained about it a little. 

“Fine,” He grumbled. “Tell me about it.”

So Aang did. And Zuko pretended to only half listen, although he had actually listened full heartedly, and had found himself growing fond of the idea. Aang knew that, because Aang knew a lot about Zuko (and that scared him, what if he had to leave like before), and continued on even more excitedly.

Like all things involving Aang, the rest was history.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely based off events in my life. Worden’s Ledges is an actual place in Hinckley, OH. If you ever get the chance to go, I recommend it! It has a romantic history to it and a perfect rock to sit on while you’re painting. Fun Fact II: I wrote this while in the hospital on some pretty good pain meds :)

“Hey, Zuko?”

“Yeah?”

“I kinda gotta pee.” 

“Hey, Aang?”

“Yeah?” 

“I swear to God if you don’t shut up I will drive us off this bridge.” 

This had become the normal conversation the two had on their cross country road trip. They were driving Zuko’s car, Aang’s had broken down two weeks before they needed to head off for college, and let’s face it; Zuko had a nice ass car. What should have been a four day trip, from San Francisco to a small college town outside of Portland, Maine, was just now going on to day eight. 

Aang needed a lot of bathroom breaks. And to sight see. And walking breaks. And stretching breaks. And eating breaks (he couldn’t eat in the car without spilling something, so Zuko endorsed this one). And honest to God, shopping breaks. Zuko indulged these breaks for two reasons; one, Aang would probably combust if he had to sit still for more than thirty minutes, and two, Zuko couldn’t say no to Aang. For the first time in a long time Zuko considered killing a man. 

They were on a long stretch of highway now, in the middle of Ohio, with nothing but cornfields any which way you looked. It was Zuko’s turn to drive, which meant it was Aang’s turn to control the AUX cord. His playlist (which he burned on to an actual CD. Zuko hadn’t even touched a CD since middle school), which he said he specifically curated for this trip, had given Zuko whiplash multiple times. 

“Oh golly!” Aang shouted. “This is my favorite song.”

He said this for just about every song. This time he said it to _Que Sera, Sera_ , a French song with a nostalgic feeling. The song before that was _Tik Tok_ by Ke$ha. Zuko couldn’t complain about a lack of diversity for the playlist but he could complain about Aang trying to play his flute along to songs he clearly did not know. 

“Aang, please, before I kill myself. Put. That. Away.” He wasn’t begging, really he wasn’t.

Aang gave an abashed smile. “Sure, buddy.”

He then pulled out his Yo Yo. Which would have been fine if he didn’t try to show his tricks to Zuko every thirty seconds. Really, if it weren’t for that Zuko probably would have only complained a little bit. 

Aang shoved his hands in front of Zuko’s face. “Woah, check this one out!” 

They crashed. 

Not too bad. Just a flat tire. In a hick town in Ohio. It’s okay for Zuko to call it a hick town, because their sign had said, _Welcome Hinckley, Ohio, Home of the Hicks_. Aang still said it wasn’t nice, but Zuko stood firm on this. 

It was actually worse than Zuko thought because; A. Neither Aang nor he knew how to change a tire, and B. The only Auto Repair shop was closed for the evening. 

Aang saw the frustration bubbling up in Zuko. He did feel sorry, only a little, but sorry enough that he caused the accident. It really wasn’t that bad though, in his opinion. All they had to do was rent a room in that cool looking motel--sure the paint was chipping and there were a few drug dealers in the front parking lot, and yeah there was guy holding up a sign that said TU PAC AINT DEAD DUMBASSES, but that added to the _vibe_ \--but he had a good feeling about this. 

“Zuko, it’s okay. I already told you I’ll pay for the tire.” Aang tried to reassure his friend. He really tried. 

Zuko stayed silent. He was trying this new thing his therapist had recommended where he stays silent if he has nothing nice to say. Right now, he only had very, very bad things to say. And they were directed mostly towards Aang, his best friend, and this hick town in fucking Ohio. So yeah, silence was the best answer he could give at the moment. 

After Aang brought back gas station food i.e. chips, cookies, juice, sardines for Zuko ( _What? You’re always talking about how you need protein!_ ), and a jar of jam that Zuko watched Aang drink like it was a smoothie in horror. It wasn’t the best meal, but with the T.V. playing as background noise, and hearing someone yelling at their shower-- _work dammit, work!_ \-- Zuko felt oddly comforted and at home. 

“So,” Aang started, not even pausing at Zuko’s groan. “I was talking to the guy downstairs, ya’ know the one holding the sign? Anyways he told me about this cool place in the park, just down the road. We should go before we leave!” 

Zuko stared at Aang. “Aang, we’ve talked about this. You can’t talk to strangers _and_ trust them. Especially strangers who believe Tu Pac isn’t dead.”

“He made some good points about that,” Aang mumbled. 

“Oh my God, you’re going to get killed.”

Aang grinned. He knew he already wore him down. 

They ended up stopping at the park the next morning while the car was being fixed, turns out the oil needed changed as well--Zuko did not know that was a thing. They found out there really was a cool place in the park, a place called Worden’s Ledges. Cool, actually wasn’t the right word, but Zuko wasn’t very good with words. 

They walked the trail and stared in awe at the artwork carved into the huge sandstone formations. There were faces, mythical and unknown _but seemed so familiar_ , and famous historical figures as well. The carvings were reminiscent of folk art and stood tall and towering over the two. The trail was easy enough to hike, barely any hills and beautiful on its own, but the sculptures and rocks made it feel otherworldly.

Aang touched the forehead of a face carved into the sandstone. It had a prominent nose, straight and proud, and curved eyes that reminded Aang of a friend from a different time. 

“This reminds me of before.” 

Zuko knew what he meant and ignored the tears in his friend's eyes. 

The oil change and tire replacement was actually decently priced and for once it was Aang who was in a hurry to get back on the road. 

They drove in silence for a while, it was still Zuko’s turn to drive, there wasn’t even music playing. Usually Zuko was okay with silence, because Aang would fill it with his body’s active movements and restless eyes. Sometimes Zuko could swear that he could even hear Aang thinking. This silence though, was somber, and made Zuko’s shoulder’s tense. 

Still he didn’t speak. He wasn’t good at asking, like Aang was. He knew though, that Aang would come forward if that’s what he needed. Sometimes Aang was a lot like him, in that way, and kept a lot to himself--buried deep in his heart. (He wondered if that hurt his soul like it did his.)

“You know,” Aang hummed. “I really liked that place.” 

Zuko stayed quiet, he was good at that. 

“But sometimes liking something can bring pain. I’m not very good with pain, at least not that kind.” 

The rest of that day’s drive was spent in companionable silence. 

The scenery was beautiful, the trees were turning to their autumnal colors; mixtures of reds, yellows, oranges, and a burnt rust color, making it look as if they were a rolling land of fire. They didn’t really have that back in San Francisco and it was Zuko’s first time seeing the changing of seasons like this. The wheat and corn fields were golden-- _golden land_ \-- and Zuko found himself wondering if he could enjoy a life out here. Maybe. 

Aang had seen what the midwest could offer, four very different seasons, but he never tired of their beauty. He pictured himself running on the rolling flames that the treetops created and falling into the tall golden grasses. It felt so familiar, the idea of running on tree tops and through golden fields, he thought maybe he had in a past life. He stuck his hand out the window of the car, enjoying how the wind glided through his fingers like silk. _This must be what heaven feels like._

They made it out of Ohio without anything significant--except for the six rest stops Aang insisted they needed to see, and that one weird diner for dinner--and Aang felt a silent confirmation that he had made the right decision. 

The calm always ends though and never lasts long. 

“Hey, Zuko,” Aang called over the radio. 

“Yeah, Aang?” He must be in a good mood, _good_.

“You know how I was trying to take a picture of the sunset?” 

“Yeah?”

“I dropped my phone out the window.” 

Zuko slammed on the breaks. “Fucking dammit, Aang.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say sorry for this being short but I’m not sorry. So I won’t. Anyways, I wrote this in the hospital again :) Might be dying, they're not sure! :) TRIGGER WARNING: Eating disorders, Alcohol Abuse, and maybe Prada slander I haven’t decided yet.

She let the phone ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. She dared it to keep ringing, the little bastard. It stopped suddenly, as if it could hear her thoughts. The automated voice spoke, _please leave a message after the tone_. Beep. She wanted to throw the phone but she doesn’t know why. Azula never does things without thinking them through, and this was not an exception. 

There was the sound of breathing, so quiet that most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Azula wasn’t most people. 

“Hello, my niece. It is your Uncle Iroh,” A deep chuckle could be heard. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. I worry for you. And your brother. You know how old men are! If you would, give a lonely old man a call back? You’d make my day.”

Azula found herself dialing his number. She hung up before he could answer. She dialed again. Hung up again. Dialed. Hung up. Dialed. Hung---

“Hello!” Uncle bellowed into the phone. 

“Oh.” She said intelligently. “Hello, Uncle.”

“Oh, niece.” He said warmly. “I am so glad you called me.”

Uncle Iroh did most of the talking. He spoke of how he hired local artists to paint the tea cups and tables in one of his tea shops. (Azula has lost track of how many shops he owned now.) He spoke of how they were in traditional Japanese art and how it made him feel at home. He spoke of how he was getting tired of eating alone so he’s started to eat with his Pai Sho buddies once a week. Azula remarked that perhaps he was just eating too much. _Maybe_ , he had answered good naturedly. He spoke a lot, and Azula listened with a few sharp remarks placed here and there (to show she was listening, not that she’d admit it).

“You know,” Uncle mused. “Zuko has finally decided to go to college.” 

Azula snorted. “His gap year turned to two and a half years. I was really starting to doubt he’d actually go.” 

Uncle hummed. 

Again, Azula spoke. “So where he’d end up? At a second rate Ivy League school?” 

Uncle let out a deep belly laugh at that. “No, he’s up in Maine! My, how far he’s gone.” 

Azula snorted again. 

“You know,” Uncle had told her. “I hear it’s a wonderful and quaint little place to vacation.” 

Azula thought about that conversation for a week. It’s not like she had much to do anyways, not since she came back to the States. She thought about it while she worked out. She thought about it while she rewatched _Swan Lake_ performed by the Royal Ballet for the twelfth day in a row. She thought about it while she showered, it helped her to not think about how her hair was falling out in clumps, and how she could count each rib in her chest. It was safe to say that she thought about it a lot. 

So when she dialed a number she had memorized, and saved under her favorites, that she hadn’t called in a long time; she wasn’t surprised with herself. 

“Hello, Mai.” Azula drawled out nonchalantly over the phone. “How would you like to go on a little trip?” 

“Anything is better than here.” She answered. 

In two days time, the two girls fresh out of high school (scandals and all), were sitting first class on their way to Maine. Azula was sipping a martini and Mai had a mimosa. It didn’t matter how old they were, if you had the money--and they had more than enough of that--you could do whatever you wanted. And Azula wanted to get _wasted_. 

Mai watched her old friend (could she call her that? after so long?) over the rim of her poorly made cocktail. She was thinner, thinner than the last time she saw her two years ago and thinner than she was on the news six months ago, too thin. Thin enough that she was gaunt looking. Her hair was perfect as always, dark and combed back neatly, but she could tell it was thinner and duller. But her eyes didn’t have the viscous, manic look to them anymore.

It unsettled her.

“So.”

“So.”

“Maine?”

“Obviously.” 

Azula took out her nail file and inspected her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she inspected her friend. Mai was her oldest friend and always answered her calls. She was loyal. And steadfast. But she could see now her friend had changed, not only in looks, but the way she held herself. She held herself more proudly, more confidently, but one thing stayed the same; her obvious look of boredom. 

“New shoes?” 

Mai accepted the olive branch. “Yeah, Prada.”

“Exceptional.”

Azula gave her a hesitant smile, consciously trying to dull her sharp edges (she was aware she shared that pointed look with her father), and ordered two more drinks. She wanted to feel that warm buzz that alcohol gives, that feeling of fire rushing through her veins when she’s had too much, and that delicious pain that comes with drinking on an empty stomach, by the time the plane landed in Maine. 

By her fourth drink Azula felt her muscles relax with that nice, warm feeling. By her fifth drink she was drunk, and by her sixth drink they had landed in Maine, and she found it difficult to walk. She demanded Mai to link arms with her, _warmfriendsafe_ , and used her to steady herself. 

“Damned heels.” She muttered. She didn’t stumble. She never stumbled. Refused to, actually. 

“Yeah,” Mai said. “Damned heels.”


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still in the hospital but I can easily say that I am the cutest patient here uwu. Uh oh! Diner slander (i do love diners, they have good vibes and feel like a place where time does not exist) TRIGGER WARNING: Eating Disorders and emaciated bodies, alcohol abuse, slurs (towards sexual orientation, I’m sorry), self-grandiose ideas, the end is probably sacrilegious. 
> 
> Loosely based off personal real life events. Again!

The autumnal air in Maine was cold. It was a wet cold, a distinct and unpleasant feeling that was notably different from San Francisco. The sky was grey, in a pleasant way, reminiscent of those coming of age, indie films. The sea birds, for the life of her she couldn’t remember the English name for them, were calling for home (or maybe food, or screams of help, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t speak bird)People were out and about, they looked like stereotypical nature lovers, and had a pleasant disposition about them. It was nothing like Russia and it was nothing like home, for that Azula was grateful. 

Her and Mai were sitting in a diner that was disgustingly greasy, loud, and played outdated music. Mai ordered fries that were served with a large pickle slice, and vinegar, with a diet coke. Azula had ordered hot water with a slice of lemon. She didn’t trust even their water. 

She took a cautious first sip. Adequate. “What do you think Ty Lee is up to?” 

Her friend was kind enough to ignore the way her words slurred together, from tiredness and drunkenness. She sent her a silent thanks. 

Mai complained loudly about her food. “Her instagram has been inactive for a while.” She said this around bites of her food. “Maybe she ran off to the circus again?”

Azula let out a laugh so loud that it surprised herself. She had forgotten about that. She had forgotten about a lot of things, actually. Sometimes she couldn’t even remember what she had forgotten. Sometimes she wished she could forget more. 

“I almost forgot about that!” She cackled. “Remember how her missing persons sign said ‘reward if found dead or alive?’”

Mai quirked her lips. “Remember how no one believed On Ji when she said she saw her at the circus?” 

Their laughter quieted down. Fond memories shimmered on the surface. They both thought back warmly to the old days, each remembering it a little bit differently. Azula tried not to think too hard about it. All that glitters is not gold, and all that shit. 

She sipped her hot water again. 

“Should I call her out here?” 

“She’d come if you’d ask.” _She’d be too scared to say no. She’d be too soft hearted to stay safe. From you. Just like me._

To Mai’s surprise, Azula answered with, “Maybe later then. We’ve all gone separate ways, haven’t we? In life that is.” 

“Yeah.”

Their hotel was the nicest one in Portland. Azula didn’t want to stay in South Portland, she was sure her brother would stink up the city, and she didn’t want to take the chance of running into him. Or losing Mai to him again. It was a decent hotel, not the nicest one either of them has stayed in by far, but nice enough that Azula only complained a little and Mai only sighed once. 

It had two bedrooms connected to a small lounge-like room. It was nice enough. For the moment. Azula of course, claimed the master bedroom, old habits die hard, and went straight to the mini bar. Over priced alcohol in travel sized bottles of a small variety were their only options. Azula snagged a few, she could feel her buzz dulling, and she wasn’t about to have that happen. 

They looked at each other as if asking _what now?_

Mai refused to take the lead. To suggest anything. She learned that long ago with Azula, that it was better to just go along for the ride, so-to-say, and deal with the consequences later. But this Azula was much more different than the one she remembers. This Azula was uncharted territory. Mai wasn’t stupid, so she stayed quiet and waited. 

“This place has such shitty wifi,” Azula was scrolling on her phone, at what, Mai didn’t know. “God, there’s nothing to do in this town.”

She continued to search. “You know what? We’re getting fucked up tonight. We’re gonna get fucked up in this little shit city, and we’re gonna enjoy it.” 

They took a shower to wipe off the feeling of air travel. And like old times, they stood before each other in just their towels, and had light banter on what they should wear. Mai took in Azula’s body in more detail this time, eyeing the way her joints were knobby and jutting out, looking as if they should creak and groan with each movement. She had various bruises, dark and ugly, on her limbs and her skin was pulled so tight that it looked like it might rip if she moved too fast. She moved in slow movements, but she couldn’t decide if it was because she was drunk or if she was really that ill. 

“Done checking me out?” Azula snapped. _There_ was the old Azula, the one she knew, the one she could handle. Azula dropped her towel. “Take it in, you fucking dyke. Look at what perfection looks like.”

Mai thought she was going to be sick. The concave stomach, the jutting bones, the bruises running down her spine, and her breasts (which Mai had seen many times, in the bath houses in Japan, in the gym, or even when they were just getting ready to go out) had always been small, but now they were gone--making her small stature look prepubescent. Malnourished. Still, Mai kept a straight face, not letting even her eyes betray her. 

“Stop being a drama queen.” Mai snapped back. 

They quickly dressed. The tension in the room--though she was sure she was the only one who could feel it-- relaxed Mai. It was familiar. She knew how to handle this. And if Azula had tears coming out of her eyes, Mai would act as if she was none the wiser, because she wouldn’t know how to handle it. 

Azula put on her best bitch face, she wasn’t dumb, she knew Mai could deal with that better. No one could deal with Azula, not Azula one medication, not Azula off her meds. Nothing. She was unloveable. A monster. 

She walked out the door confidently, cooly, and stood proud like the royalty she was. She knew she stood out in this town. She knew she didn’t fit in, that she stood out of the crowd easily. She could feel the eyes follow her (and Mai), the jealous envy, the awe, and the warm light the sunset gave--basking in it, feeling it’s praise and blessing. Blessing and glorifying her. It only grew the more they walked and the more stares they earned. She relished in that. She let the feeling wash over her. The feeling that she was better than everyone. The feeling that she just might be God. ( ~~No, Azula was not God, she was better than God, she could overthrow God. She’d become a new God, a better God. A more powerful God.~~ )

For the first time in a long time, Azula felt like herself. 

And Mai followed. 


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, loosely based off past events in my life. Also, I shouldn’t have to say this but I feel obligated, but please DON’T have roomba fights. They never end well. I’m not joking. I think the only trigger warning would be weapons but I do have violence listed in the tags :/ (oh i am also out of the hospital! I do have to go back next week to make sure the infusions are working right though lol)

Aang walked confidently into Zuko’s room after knocking and not waiting for an answer. Zuko was sitting at his desk, writing with such force that he should have broken his pen, and was still wearing his casual clothes--which were not casual at all, a classic button up with tweed pants and Oxford shoes hardly counts as casual in Aang’s books. He had his bangs pulled back in a red scrunchie, ruining his intimidating look. 

“I have the best idea, since like, ever.” Aang told him. 

Zuko sighed and looked up. “What now?”

“You know how you like alcohol? And how I like weed?” Aang started. “Well, all we need to do is bring our roomba and we’ll get free samples!” 

“Aang,” Zuko said, suddenly concerned. “Have you been talking to that guy who sits outside of the convenience store again?”

Nervously Aang rubbed the back of his head and chuckled. Yeah, he _was_ talking to the Boulder--a big man who spoke in third person, who just so happened to like the corner store--but that’s not where he got his information. He was actually kind of offended that Zuko thought he would go behind his back. 

“No, well not today, but that shouldn’t matter!”

“Aang, he literally offered to suck my dick for rock candy, there’s something wrong with him.” 

He had a point. 

Flustered, he retorted, “Well for your information, it was a girl I met at the library. Toph Beifong. See? I even found out her name.”

Zuko looked at him suspiciously. Aang was a bad liar, just like himself, and it was easy to see that he wasn’t lying. He was standing beside him, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, staring right back at him. He was wearing an orange toga today and yellow bell bottoms. Anyone else would look crazy in them, but Aang just looked friendly. 

“Beifong?” He asked incredulously. “ _The_ Beifongs? As in the Beifong Hotel Tycoons? Aang she’s pulling your leg.” 

“No, she’s not. I trust her.”

“You trust a girl who offered you weed and alcohol, sample size no less, for a roomba?” 

“Yes.”

That was how they ended up in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town that evening. Just because it was abandoned didn’t mean it was empty. In fact, it was filled with people of all races, classes, and gender. It was loud and had jazz music playing. People were smoking, drinking, and just having a nice time. And they all had roombas.

Zuko hated it. He was confused and he hated it. 

He looked around, he had lost Aang some point, and found a crate to sit on. He pulled it to the corner, having his back against the wall, his good eye towards the crowd, and managed to keep an eye on Aang (who was mingling with people, dangerous looking people, without a care in the world). He felt his blood pressure rise. 

The crowd quieted down when a short and stout girl entered the room with a large, long haired dog. The dog wore a vest, a service dog, and on closer inspection he could see the girl was pure muscle. She wore dirty jean shorts that stopped below her knees, crocs-- _yuck_ \--and a t-shirt that had words he couldn’t make out. Despite her homeless appearance, she was obviously important in some way. During his observation Aang had sidled up to his side.

“That’s her.” He whispered in Zuko’s good ear. “Toph Beifong.” 

Zuko confidently told him that, no, it was not Toph Beifong. Aang gave him a doubtful look, but before he could answer he was silenced when the stout girl began to bellow. 

“Ladies and Rats! We will begin in fifteen minutes. Like always, the rules are simple; no guns, the limits are two knives per person, _Jin_ , no explosives (she laughed here), and no cheating. If I catch anyone cheating, you _will_ deal with me personally.” She clapped and then rubbed her hands together. “The grand prize, twelve pounds of weed and this forty year old bottle of wine worth five hundred dollars. Prep time starts now!” 

The madness started as everyone scrambled to prepare their roombas. Zuko watched on in confusion and horror while Aang watched in awe. People had taped knives, shields, and handmade contraptions to their vacuum cleaners. People started shouting at each other, accusing them of stealing ideas or even cheating. The announcer had disappeared while the chaos ensued. 

Aang elbowed Zuko. “So exciting news! I entered us in the contest!” 

Zuko turned his shocked stare to his friend. He was starting to reconsider the friendship after all the shit situations he put them in. “What?”

“To be fair I thought it would be a fun little roomba race.” A horrified look appeared on his face. “I just realized we only have a roomba. Nothing else.”

“Just back out of the tournament.” 

“Zuko, the fee is seventy-five dollars to quit.”

They did not have seventy five dollars. They had Zuko’s black card and Aang's five dollar gift card to Walmart. But no cash. Who carries cash anymore? Zuko felt like shouting. He couldn’t decide who he should shout at, or what he should shout. So he screamed. Just a scream. It felt good.

Until the room quieted and stared at him. 

“What?” He yelled. 

They backed off and went back to work. 

“Zuko! Look, I have my chopsticks in my fanny pack!”

“Not now, Aang. We gotta get out of here.” He said while looking for an exit. A fast and easy exit. 

But Aang was gone already, asking to borrow some duct tape from a girl with tattoos, and was already taping the wooden chopsticks to their shitty, off brand roomba. Zuko smacked his forehead in frustration. Great. They were going to be out of their last pair of chopsticks (sadly Aang had a habit of giving them away to people who never used them before and probably never will again) and their only vacuum cleaner. 

The short girl came back out with her dog. Everyone stopped talking and waited for her to speak. Aang wasn’t paying attention, but Zuko was. Zuko always paid attention; he, after all, was always in survival mode. Every nerve in his body was telling him that they should get out of here, that there were too many people, that there were too many people with _weapons_ , and that he wasn’t sure he could fend them off. Especially when Aang was a pacifist. 

“First off, we have Jin and Teo!”

The fight ended fast with Teo absolutely demolishing Jin’s roomba. There was a small fire that was quickly extinguished. It progressed like that. Each winner faced a new challenger until a player was eliminated. Some of the fights were exciting and people were even placing bets on who would make it to the final round.Some fights were short and to the point, like the first round. There was shouting and aggressive cheers coming from the crowds when there was a win and small groans when there was a particular loss. Some roombas were left in states beyond repair. 

“Next off we have The Gopher, so far undefeated, against a new comer, Aang!” 

The crowd chanted. The crowd was becoming rowdy, ready to see someone get demolished. When they saw Aang stepforward they grew even more excited. Aang looked like an easy kill, docile looking with an off brand roomba equipped only with chopsticks in his skinny little arms. Zuko grew anxious and stepped close to Aang’s side, keeping his good eye on the crowd, and held onto Aang’s toga to make sure he wouldn’t get separated from him. 

They set their roomba’s into the ring, turned off until the short girl blew her whistle, and suddenly it all happened so fast. Somehow, with Aang’s traditional dumb luck, the chopsticks hit The Gopher’s vacuum’s off button. The match ended in less than thirty seconds. The crowd was quiet and then there was an uproar of applause and whoops of victory. Zuko let out a breath he didn’t know that he was holding. 

He did know, though, that the announcer didn’t look too happy. Aang didn’t notice, he was too busy praising a robot. 


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Back on my bullshit again. Kinda depressed but still well dressed. No Prada slander in this one. Is this short? Yes. TRIGGER WARNING: Dead moms, eating disorders, abandonment, classical music slander.

“She’s so beautiful,” Katara sighed as she looked at her phone. 

She was currently scrolling through her Instagram feed and liking nearly every photo she’s seen. Right now though, she was admiring one of her favorite dancers, a girl named Azula who was a professional ballerina; and who also had a gorgeous and envy worthy Instagram page. Her most recent post was of her in L.A. holding a green tea and posing with her friend, a model whose name Katara couldn’t remember. 

“Who?” Sokka asked, mouth full of food. 

Katara turned her phone towards him, showing the beautiful girl. “Her, Azula.” 

Sokka studied her for a minute. Made a face--one Katara knew all too well--one where he was connecting dots faster than she could ever hope to understand. As if a light went off in his head, he opened his mouth and then shut it again, as if thinking better of what he was going to say. A rare thing for him. 

“What?” She snapped. 

“I just think she might be malnourished.” Was all he said. Then, “She’s actually showing signs of an eating disorder.”

“God, Sokka. She looks fine, she’s beautiful.” She sighed again. “I wish I looked like her.” 

Sokka glared at her. “Well maybe if you ate like her, you’d look like her.” 

Katara threw her pillow at him. She knew he didn’t really mean it, but it hurt. So she beat him with her pillow, it was a fair exchange. Katara wasn’t dainty like the ballerina, she was short and lean--mostly from working out on the docks with her brother and dad since she was twelve--and most importantly; she was strong. So she whacked him good and hard.

“Ow, dammit. I’m sorry.” He said. He didn’t sound sorry, but Katara let up.

“You know I’m sensitive about it.” She pulled her knees to her chest. This was her offer of an apology. “I look more like Dad than you. It gets to me sometime.” 

Sokka wasn’t good with words. He actually wasn’t very good with sappy stuff at all. What he didn’t have what Dad did, wise words and bear hugs. He didn’t have what Mom had; _comfortwarmthlovehome_. What he did have though, was the ability to cook. He could do that. He could cook pretty much anything. 

He left Katara, who had dewy eyes and was still scrolling through her phone, and went to the kitchen. She didn’t seem to notice that he left the room. He came back fifteen minutes later with a warm toasted cheese sandwich and a mug of her ‘fancy’ hot chocolate. Sokka set it down in front of her unceremoniously and pretended like he didn’t see her smile. (But he did and it filled his chest with such a nice and tight feeling.) 

Later that night, as they sat on the couch together watching a cheesy horror film, Katara leaned into her brother. To know he was there. She needed to physically feel him, to hear his heartbeat and the gentle hum he made when he liked a movie scene, she just needed to know he was here. That he was real. That he was alive. 

“It’s just hard being so far away from home.” She whispered as the credits rolled. 

Sokka thought for a moment. “I’m not too good at this, but isn’t ‘home is where the heart is’ so something silly like that?”

She punched his arm as she sat up. “You know what I mean. Mom. Dad. Us together.” 

“Yeah.”

It was winter in Maine and although it was nowhere near as harsh as Alaska, it made Katara feel at home. Or close to it. She liked the sharp wind and the grey skies. She liked that she could wear her parka, her trusty coat that she’s had since middle school, and she liked that she could put her pretty, blue mittens to use. 

When Sokka got a job in Maine, Katara had thought that she would be separated from her last family member. She then got that determined drive that made her dad’s hair turn grey and gave her grandmother more wrinkles. She applied to every college possible, and despite her felony, she was accepted into one near Sokka’s new apartment. (It probably had something to do with the fact that she was somewhat of a child prodigy, but details, details.)

They moved together. They lived together. Katara refused to let them part, and Sokka seemed to have the same sentimentality. Neither of them wanted to be alone. Neither of them wanted to be away from each other. It was a mutual thing really, even if they did fight quite a bit.

Katara pulled her scarf to cover the bottom half of her face as she walked faster to get to her class. She was running late, again, and the slush on the sidewalks did not help. She kept her head facing the ground, away from the wind and snow--she was mostly wondering how it was 9:30 A.M. when only twenty minutes ago it was 6:00 A.M--and felt herself start to panic. Her professor had warned her that if she was late one more time this semester that it would affect her final grade. 

She _really_ needed this class as well. She was on an almost full ride scholarship and this class was part of her requirements. Katara didn’t necessarily like this class, Music Theory, she actually didn’t like a lot of her classes that involved music, but she was _good_ at it. She had always been good at music. Ever since she could remember really. 

It was never a question if Katara was good at music, playing the cello specifically, it was just a known fact in her family. But no one actually realized _how_ good she was until she was six years old and performing Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major at Carnegie Hall. No one really knew how good she was until she was offered to teach a cello masterclass at Juilliard. All Katara knew was that she liked playing the cello and that she liked how it sounded. (She also liked the praise she received but that was neither here nor there.)

She was nineteen now and the cello had become somewhat of a tool. An object to go further in life. It wasn’t fun anymore. It wasn’t something she wanted to do. But it was something she was good at (she was probably the best among her peers), it was something that people actually wanted from her. (She missed the way the cello used to make her feel. She missed the way it sounded like a long forgotten voice. She missed the way it was music. She just missed. She missed a lot of things, really.) So, everyday she would take a deep breath, sling her cello onto her back, and go to class. Katara just sucked it up. Because that’s what she had to do. 

When she arrived to class everyone was already seated, but she wasn’t late for once. They looked at her, judging like always (about what she didn’t know), and she looked right back. She could out stare anyone, she could out stubborn the best of them. She could and she would. Because that’s how you survived life. 

“Hey!” Someone called cheerfully as the burst in the door behind her. “You! Girl with the big thing on her back!” 

Katara turned around. There was a boy, severely underdressed for the weather they were having, with vibrant tattoos in the shape of arrows that started at his forehead; then led down his neck and presumably his back, and down each limb. He had grey eyes that were shaped obliquely like her’s and a bright smile. She couldn’t look away from him. 

He was holding something in his hands though, Katara realized lamely. Her music. 

“Oh!” She said intelligently. “That’s my music!” 

“Yeah!” He said back brightly. “I’ve been calling for you for a while but you just kept walking.” 

The boy rubbed the back of his bald head and gave her a charming smile. “I’m Aang, by the way.”

“Katara.” She breathed. 

And like all things concerning Aang, the rest was history. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Katara was going to play the harp or some shit like that, but I was classically trained for the cello so that’s all I really know :/ I didn’t want to write about something I didn’t know lol. Also next chapter will contain some angst and steamy scenes.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it’s your girl, back in the hospital but they serve bombass jello here. This chapter got a little steamy idky but in a gross way >:(. TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic Descriptions of Eating Disorders, ODing, Trauma, and Sexual Content

She was good at using her words to hurt people. She knew that since she was a little girl, after she had made her mother cry for the first time. She couldn’t remember what she had said, she just knew that _she hurt_ and that she wanted her mother to hurt too. Zuko had yelled at her until he was red in the face when that had happened. 

Azula had thought that her dad would yell at her when he saw Mom crying. He didn’t though, he gave her a proud smile, almost a snarl really, and that was when Azula knew that what she did was _wrong_. But for some reason she couldn’t stop. 

It wasn’t that she liked hurting people-- _maybe she did. Maybe that’s why she kept doing it, kept getting better at it_ \--it was just something that she found herself doing. It made her feel safe. It made her feel just a little bit better, because now she wasn’t the only one hurting. Now she wasn’t the only one bleeding. She was so good with her words, in fact, that she had started to use them to hurt others before they could hurt her. 

It just made sense, really.

After _the incident_ , Azula had told Zuko, “Oh you know what Father says, I was born lucky. And you. You were lucky to be born.” 

Sometimes, instead of her nightmares being filled with the sounds of his screams and the scent of burning flesh, she heard those words. Over and over again. And she saw the way he flinched, pulling his hand up to that ugly, wrinkled scar (that now took up his once beautiful face, the face that Azula wished she had), and the way his eyes grew hurt and then empty. In those dreams she would try to stop those words from coming out, sometimes stitching her mouth shut, sometimes cutting her tongue out, but the words still came. 

Azula was sitting in her hotel bathroom now. It was February already. Time in Maine, she realized, didn’t really make a whole lot of sense (or maybe it didn’t even exist here). Mai had left for New York Fashion Week, she had invited Azula to come along telling her that there was always a seat left empty for her, but Azula had refused. She hadn’t been to a show in so long. She didn’t want to be seen. Not after Moscow. It was February and she still hadn’t called Zuko--she wanted to so badly, but for some reason her body wouldn’t listen to her mind. It was February and she was alone in her hotel bathroom in Maine. 

It was February when Azula realized that she was getting bad again. Actually, she was beyond _getting_ , she _was_ bad again. And she was scared. She was scared, alone, in her hotel bathroom. Her vision was blurry. She was weak. Maybe because she hadn’t eaten in so long. So long. She knew that her eating was getting out of control, _it always had been but now she knew she couldn’t stop_ , that her eating was beyond a problem now. Maybe it was those pills--what the pills were, she wasn’t sure. The guy who had given them to her just promised that they were _good_ \-- she took. She was scared, she was alone. 

And she wanted her brother. 

She didn’t remember dialing the phone. She didn’t even realize that she _did_ dial the phone until she heard Zuko’s voice snap into the receiver. 

“What.” He had said. 

“Zuzu,” She slurred. 

“This better be good. Make it fast.” He barked into the phone. She could hear laughter in the background. 

Azula struggled to think of what she needed to tell him. She remembered, faintly. “Oh,” She said. “I really messed up this time, Zuzu.” 

His voice grew angrier. That made her heart feel just a little bit better. He hadn’t changed. At least not with her. She felt safe then, because this was Zuko, her brother. She knew this Zuko. She knew what to say, how to get what she wanted, a territory she could easily navigate like it was the back of her hand. 

He was quiet, and she wasn’t sure if he was even on the line still, but she said, “I think I’m dying.” 

She laughed. He didn’t. 

“Where the fuck are you?” 

It took Azula a moment to think. “Oh. Portland. Maine. Beifong Hotel.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. You better get your bitch ass ready or on God I will kick your motherfucking cunt ass. You got that?”

“Oh yes.” She slurred. 

The first time that Azula realized that she had gone too far was when she was sixteen, while she was in France for Paris Fashion Week, and found that she was too weak to get out of bed. The night before she had a lot to drink, a lot to smoke, and nothing to eat. She was good at not eating. There was no one in her hotel room, besides that skinny white boy she hooked up with--because he promised her a good time, he promised her attention, and most importantly, he promised her cocaine--who was still knocked out next to her in bed. 

When they were fucking, he had a bruising grip on her hips. 

“Fuck,” He panted. “God. I love the way your bones feel.” 

She grinned at that, because she worked hard for those bones to show. She had worked so fucking hard and no one had appreciated it. Until him. No one had thought she was thin enough, good enough, until he had his cock in her pussy, and was fucking her with brutal force. She liked the pain. She liked his mean word. She liked it. 

“God,” He grunted out agan. Thrust in. Thrust out. “You look like a fucking corpse. That’s so hot babe.”

Azula had liked that. She liked his cruel words disguised as compliments. But now she was scared. She could feel her heartbeat getting slower, heavier, and that heavy feeling in her lungs made it harder and harder to breathe.

Finally, with a strength she didn’t know she had left, she forced his heavy arm off her stomach, and rolled herself out of bed. The floor felt good. But Azula didn’t let herself lull into a false sense of security. She crawled her way over to her phone, the battery said 35%. Good enough. But the phone was heavy. And she was tired. So she sat there numbly.

It was Ty Lee who found her. (Ty Lee hadn’t cared that Azula was naked, that Azula had dry cum between her thighs. She had lovingly covered her with a sheet, combed her hair from her sweaty face, and held her tightly as she called for help.) It was Ty Lee who called for an ambulance. It was her father who paid for her one week treatment. He had decided she was better, she could walk again after all. Azula had agreed with him. She wanted out of there. They hadn’t listened to her there, they hadn’t cared that she was _Azula Hassuru_. In the back of her head, a little voice that sounded an awful lot like her bitch of a mother, whispered _you’re not okay, Azula._

As Azula waited for her big brother on the cold bathroom floor-- _God, why did this have to happen again_ \--she wanted to cry. But she didn’t. Really, she didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I chose the last name Hassuru because that is the Japanese word for emitting fire/breath of fire. :)


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! Like the tags say, super slow burn. You will meet more characters in the next chapters. Idk this chapter is pure shit and Toph deserves better but I am high on pain meds so oh well :/ Also, the fighting style is based off of true martial arts :)

Toph was good at a lot of things. She is good at knowing when people were lying to her. She was classically trained on the drums and was placed first nationally in high school. She was good with kids and knowing how people were feeling. What she wasn’t good at though, was seeing. 

Just because she couldn’t see didn’t mean she was stupid. When the crowd grew quiet and then grew to an uproar in applause, Toph knew the betting was off. The kid she met at the library  _ should _ have lost. All odds were against him. It would have been stupid--no,  _ insane _ \--to have placed bets on him.

She felt a frown form on her face and Bandit, her dog, her partner in crime, her pair of eyes, bumped his snout against her thigh when he sensed her displeasure. She had just lost a shit ton of money. She wasn’t worried about the prize, what would she do with twelve pounds of weed when she didn’t even smoke the shit? She didn’t care about the wine either, her dad had plenty more of the expensive stuff. What she was mad about though, really, truly mad about, was the fact that she  _ lost. _

Toph wasn’t used to losing. Struggling? Sure. Fighting tooth and nail to when (or get what she wants)? Yeah. But losing? Not so much. It was safe to say she thoroughly pissed off. 

Zuko could sense her displeasure, her anger, he was always aware if someone was upset in any way. It was just a survival skill he needed in his family. A survival skill he needed in the world. He saw it bubbling up inside her, ready to burst at any moment. He yanked on Aangs sleeve, trying to draw him away from the animated conversation he was having to bring him to safety.

Aang wouldn’t budge. 

“What the fuck, Twinkletoes?” The short girl shoved Aang roughly. 

Aang looked at her in surprise. “What’s wrong, Toph?”

Toph took that the wrong way. Aang could see that immediately. It would be pretty much impossible to not be able to see that, especially when there was fist flying at him. He dodged it, light on his feet and looked at her in schock. For a moment he thought of high school, with Zuko throwing punches and sharp kicks, and Aang dancing around them. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Aang shouted, mostly out of surprise and a slowly growing anger.

“You, you fuckhead!” She shouted back. 

He watched her tilt her head to see where he was, to her right she determined, and then threw another punch. Again, he dodged it in a sweeping motion. He placed his left arm in a relaxed but firm pose, his palm facing her’s, and his right hand was set in a purposeful position below his other, left palm tilted towards the floor. His stance was firm but light as he circled her. 

Zuko couldn’t place where he’s seen that form before, it looked similar to his various fighting styles he’s seen, but much lighter. Aang had a grim look on his face. Toph--was her name really that?--milky eyes stared blankly ahead, but she would tilt her head slightly to try and place where she heard Aang’s footsteps.  _ Oh _ , he thought stupidly,  _ she’s blind. _

She threw another punch and missed. Her face felt hot, either from rage or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure. She could barely hear Aang, he walked so lightly and quickly it was hard to keep up. Suddenly, she felt hopeless, useless, and pathetic. Just like when she was a kid.  _ Oh. _ She felt like a kid again. 

Zuko made a jab towards her. She could hear it coming from a mile away. Bandit lunged at Zuko, just missing his arm, sharp teeth ready to feel flesh. This was going too far, she realized. They were going to have an incident, she could feel the nervous energy in the room, and she couldn’t afford to break her probation. Again. 

“Bandit, heel.” She called off the dog. 

Aang kept a defensive pose and Zuko stood in front of him. Ready to fight. Ready to protect. Protect his family.  _ His _ . When the others realized that there wouldn’t be blood shed tonight, they left quickly, not wanting to be associated with potential crime. (Admittedly, the underground roomba fights, the twelve pounds of weed, and the illegal betting were felonies, but this situation was  _ different _ .)

Slowly Aang put his hands down. Zuko didn’t follow suit. 

“What the fuck was that for?” Aang asked. Quietly. 

Toph felt scolded. “You cost me five grand,  _ buddy _ !”

Zuko grabbed Aang’s arm, they were leaving. He wasn’t about to add manslaughter to his record. At least not tonight. Especially not for someone like her, an identity stealing bitch. Aang, though, wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. 

“Toph.” He said more gently. “What’s your problem with me?”

Zuko mumbled, “Her name isn’t even Toph, buddy.”

That was it. That was the limit for Toph. The final straw. The shove that pushed her over the edge. She felt hot angry tears well up in her eyes. She didn’t need fake kindness from strangers. She didn’t need to prove herself to be true. She didn’t.

But that didn’t stop her from crying. Or from saying, “I  _ am _ Toph Fucking Beifong. The best person in the Goddamned world, and you better believe it.” 

“Listen,” Aang said kindly. “I don’t want the money. I mean I do kinda want the weed, and I  _ did _ kinda promise Zuko free alcohol, but the money is all yours.” 

Toph didn’t cry. Really she didn’t. 

“Come on, let’s get some grub.” Aang guided his best friend and his (possibly) new friend out of the warehouse and into the fresh night air, ready for peace. 

Peace was hard to find though. He struggled with it more than most people. He was supposed to represent peace. He was supposed to represent a lot of things, actually. As Zuko started the car and as Toph started complaining about the music, Aang began to feel his shoulders tense and the weight of the world grow just a little bit heavier. One more person to love. One more person to protect. 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely based off a conversation I had in real life :) Still in the hospital but that’s chill. I was informed to warn people about the “obscene language” but that is the least of my worries lmao. Sorry not sorry that this is kinda short. No TRIGGER WARNINGS tonight?? Maybe just anger and past childhood trauma (briefly mentioned).

Zuko had been with Aang and Toph when he had gotten the phone call. His friendship with Toph, like most of his friendships it seems, started out rocky. But she soon became a steady and constant part in his life--despite her love taps (punches to his arms)--and he honestly couldn’t imagine his life without her, but maybe that was because she consumed almost every aspect of it. 

It had only taken a single heartfelt meal at a shit hole of a dinner before Aang declared her as one of his. Toph had snorted when he said that but allowed him to give a toast of congratulations over some milkshakes. Her eyes had been red from her tears (he knew what those tears felt like, the ones that came from frustration and anger, the ones that came from being just you against the world) so he didn’t comment on it. 

He wasn’t very sure why he didn’t trust her anymore. (Especially after finding out that she hadn’t been lying, that she  _ was _ really a Beifong. But that only raised more questions but no more feelings of dishonesty.)

“I’m just saying, Twinkletoes, that you  _ would _ eat an animal if you were starving to death.” Toph had said.

Aang looked affronted. “No! I would not!” 

Zuko had been about to put his input in--he was going to side with Toph to get Aang riled up--when his phone rang. He felt his shoulders tense when he saw the name on the screen. When was the last time he had even talked to her? He wanted to ignore it, he truly did, and he would have too if he hadn’t heard Uncle’s voice in his head. 

_ Answer it. Who knows what life may be offering you, Nephew?  _ Probably to fuck him in the ass, that’s what. 

“What.” He said. He refused to show emotion. He wasn’t going to let her latch onto anything, just so she could destroy him. To shred him with her claws and gnaw on his flesh. He wasn’t going to give her anything that she could turn back on him with a deadly force. He wouldn’t.

“Zuzu,” She had said. She sounded off. (But he hadn’t spoken to her in years, so he wasn’t sure if he remembered what she sounded like, but this didn’t seem right.)

Aang and Toph were still arguing in the back, now play-wrestling--with Toph clearly winning. Toph cackled when she had Aang’s head under her dirty feet but let out a shout of surprise when he bit her ankle. Zuko desperately wanted this conversation to end. He wanted to be laughing with them, he didn’t want to be on the phone with  _ her _ .

He felt his anger start to build. It always did when he was with her. Or even thought of her.

“This better be good. Make it fast.” He snapped.

There was a long pause. 

And then an, “Oh. I really messed up this time, Zuzu.”

A pang of fear struck his heart. All he could think of was somehow Dad got to her. Somehow she finally fell from their father’s grace. That she had burning flesh and a voice ruined from screams. He felt fear and then that soon was taken over by rage. (He found that rage took over him when he felt things he didn’t like. He doesn’t know how to stop it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop.)

“Where the fuck are you?”  _ Tell me where so I can save you. So I can kick  _ his _ ass too. So you don’t leave me. Not again. _

Another moment of silence. Then, like she had an epiphany, she said. “Oh. Portland. Maine. Beifong Hotel.” 

His two friends were quiet now, watching Zuko yell at his phone. Toph wasn’t stupid, she knew he was angry. She knew he was irate. She was sitting next to him, leaning against his shaking legs, but she wasn’t scared. Zuko wouldn’t hurt her. 

Toph did jump though when he shouted into the phone one last time. 

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. You better get your bitch ass ready or on God I will kick your motherfucking cunt ass. You got that?”

Zuko barely heard Azula’s slurred response of, “Oh yes,” before he hung up abruptly. He was too angry to think, too worried to process what was going on. All he knew was that it must be bad, must be pretty shitty actually, if Azula had actually called  _ him _ for help. 

He stood up from his spot on on the couch and started to put his jacket on, because fucking hell it was cold outside, and sliding off his house slipper to replace them with sneakers. He grabbed his car keys and was about to head out the door when Aang stopped him. 

“So where are we going?” He asked. 

Zuko stared at him. “Not  _ we.  _ It’s where  _ I’m _ going.”

Aang then looked at him as if Zuko were dumb, which sometimes he was, as he slid his own shoes on. He knew Zuko’s levels of anger well and tonight, when he had heard Zuko’s shouts, he had winced. This was not his normal shouting. This was his feral shouts. The kind he did when he was about to slice a man open. The kind he did when Uncle was mugged and he chased that bastard down. This was the impulsive, rage filled Zuko that reminded Aang of their shared past. A time that was painful for the both of them.

“Zuko, you gotta be stupid if you think that we’re not coming.” 

“Yeah, Sparky,” Toph said as she slipped on her crocs. She gave him one of her love taps before she grabbed a hold of his hand. “We’re going too.”

And that was that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Yes this is short. Am I proud of that? Not particularly. Will I change my ways? Who knows!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of the hospital :) Have to see a neurosurgeon though :/ TRIGGER WARNINGS: Emaciation, Graphic Description of Anorexia, Drug Abuse, and Reckless Behavior

Exactly nineteen minutes later the trio had arrived in South Portland and were idling in the front parking lot of the Beifong Hotel, one of the most expensive hotels in Maine--and conveniently owned by Toph’s parents. Aang watched as Zuko rested his head on the steering wheel, he was taking deep breaths to try and calm himself. In. Out. In. Out. He had taught Zuko that trick. 

He wasn’t sure who Zuko was on the phone with. He didn’t need to know. It didn’t matter if Zuko was going to see a ghost, Aang would follow him. Aang would support his friend and just _be_ there for him. Aang couldn’t think of a thing that Zuko could do that he wouldn’t forgive or offer help for. Except for maybe murder. (But even then Aang knew he could forgive him, even if he didn’t want to. Because Aang knew he needed all the forgiveness possible for himself.)

It was Aang who spoke first. “Zuko. You have fifteen minutes to do whatever you need to do. If you’re not back by then, Toph and I are coming in.” 

Toph called from the back with a, “Yeah, and we’ll fuck shit up.”

“Yeah,” Aang said. “We’ll fuck shit up.” 

Zuko grunted in acknowledgement, or maybe it was agreement, and stormed out of the car. Aang watched nervously before he turned around to Toph. 

“You wanna have a YoYo contest?” He asked. 

“I can’t see, dumbass.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

They sat in companionable silence for a while, though the air was thick with worry. Everytime the hotel’s front doors opened, Aang would leave forward in his seat to see if it was Zuko, but it never was. Toph had grown frustrated with his constant fidgeting and she made it known by kicking the back of his seat. 

“What do you think is going on?” She asked quietly. 

“I don’t know.” Aang said. “But he has five more minutes before we go in for him.”

Four minutes later Zuko came out. He wasn’t alone either. There was a girl, incredibly thin and small that she almost didn’t look real, that Zuko was practically dragging. She was stumbling over her own feet, barely able to keep up with Zuko, and was wearing a satin nightgown and ridiculously expensive looking slippers. He wasn’t being gentle with her. 

When they were almost to the car Aang realized in horror that this waif-like girl was Azula. Zuko’s little sister. Someone he had barely known, only in passing and those few nasty remarks, who was always so beautiful, so perfect, and now looked so ill that he wanted to vomit from just looking at her. _Maybe she was already a spirit. Maybe she was already dead._

When the car door opened, Zuko roughly threw Azula into the backseat, speaking rapid and vicious Japanese. She lounged on top of Toph (who wasn’t too pleased) without trying to move herself in a more comfortable position, and it was fairly obvious she was drunk and under the influence of some kind of drug. She said nothing.

“Who the fuck is on me?” Toph had mostly annoyance in her voice, one of her better possible reactions. 

After it had become clear that Zuko wasn’t going to answer, Aang had told her gently that this was Azula, his _sister_. _Oh_ , was all she had said. The car ride back to their apartment was fairly quiet, with the exception of Zuko’s continued assault in Japanese and Azula’s mumbled response’s--which were sometimes in English, sometimes in Japanese, but usually were just grunts. Toph had stayed surprisingly quiet and was gentle with Azula, something Aang didn’t know was possible (and he gave a quick prayer of thanks for that). 

When they got back to their apartment, Zuko had wasted no time to drag his sister out of the car and up the stairs. Toph hesitated in the backseat before getting out all the same. She didn’t know exactly who Azula was, she had only just recently learned that Zuko had a sister after all, and she couldn’t exactly _see_ what was wrong with her--but she wasn’t stupid. She knew that no one should have bones that could be felt throughout their whole body, that no one should be unresponsive, that no one should be wearing Chanel No. 5 and still be able to reek like alcohol. She was pretty sure that they should have gone to a hospital, hell, probably anywhere but their apartment. 

But Aang didn’ argue or object with where they were, so Toph had stayed uncharacteristically quiet. (Because despite all of her arguments with him, the fact that he made her lose five grand, and all the teasing she gives, she respected him.)

“You coming, Twinkletoes?” She asked.

“Yeah,” He said and soon followed. 

The two of them walked into a disaster. There was what looked like a pile of vomit--or was it bile?--by the front door. There were a few splatters of blood on the wall, Aang knew it was blood but he still continued to be optimistic about it (because maybe it wasn’t Zuko’s or Azula’s blood). The living room wasn’t in too bad of a state, they could always replace that broken vase and could easily put the cushions back onto the sofa. 

It was eerily silent throughout their apartment when they found Zuko. He was in the bathroom, sporting a black eye and scratch marks running down his neck, sitting on the floor beside the bathtub. Azula was asleep, she wasn’t dead--that much he knew, Aang could see her chest move with each shallow breath--and was lying in the bathtub at an unnatural angle. 

“I can’t do this.” Zuko said. Defeat was in his voice. 

“I think that I should call Katara,” Aang responded as he looked at Azula’s conscious form. “Toph, could you grab some linens out of the hall closet?”

Toph said nothing but Aang heard her leave, feet quietly but quickly padding down the hall. He then turned to Zuko, studying his friend. The black eye wasn’t bad, Zuko’s definitely had worse, and the scratches were superficial. His friend, _bestfriendbrother_ , had his head tucked into his chest and shoulders slumped--Aang had never seen his friend slouch, ever. 

Zuko was always proud, even when he was in the ER getting rabies shots because he got bit by a raccoon, even when he knew he would fail, even when he was facing death. Zuko had always stood tall, his shoulders drawn back, chin up, the perfect posture that somehow screamed _defiance_! But now he sat in the bathroom, looking so _defeated_ , so broken, so very much not like Zuko, and Aang felt helpless. Zuko had never given up before, ever. That was one of his strengths and maybe even one of his flaws, but giving up had never been something he was capable of (until now).

“I think this might be a fitted sheet,” Toph said as she tossed the cream colored cloth towards Aang. “I wouldn’t know though, I’ve never made a bed before and I’m _blind_.” 

Aang chuckled. “This will do.” 

After he had made sure Azula wrapped snugly in the bathtub and Zuko still by her side, Aang made a necessary phone call to Katara. It was a number he had memorized and it was a number he had called so many times since he’d first met her, but tonight he didn’t feel the butterflies in his stomach nor did his heart do that strange _pitter patter_ when he heard her voice. He knew he was asking a lot from her, a lot from a girl he barely knew, a girl who had no reason to agree to be sworn to secrecy. (But he knew she’d do it, he knew she would come.) 

And she did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Was this chapter dramatic? Yeah! But I think I deserve it after having a doctor stick a six inch needle in my ass and ELECTROCUTING ME. To be fair he did electrocute other parts of my body but that was the worst one. (Also, I’ve been in Azula’s position before. Emaciation plus the adrenaline that drugs give can cause some serious damage to yourself and others. If you find yourself in a similar position as Azula, please get help. It’s worth it, I promise.)


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was out of pain meds until today, so it’s been kind of rough :/ In a lot of pain, laying in bed, and a head full of disastrous thoughts. Buuuuut I did get to eat ice cream for breakfast (admittedly I am an adult who lives by herself but still). TRIGGER WARNINGS: Stupidity, Idiots in Love, DIY Projects Gone Wrong, Dead Girlfriend

Sokka knew he had trust issues, okay? He knew that, really. When he had first met Aang, he didn’t trust him. He did now, but at the time he didn’t trust the little shit as far as he could throw him. And yeah, he was a bit paranoid, but his distrust in the kid was completely valid (especially with how he always made puppy dog eyes towards his sister and was so annoyingly optimistic. No one was _that_ optimistic, unless they were liars.)

But then he slowly grew on him--if you considered three days slowly--and had now considered him one of his closest friends, and maybe even family. That fondness turned to love and that love had turned into well deserved respect. It still grossed him out though that he was so obviously in love with his sister, but he had to admit that it was fun to hold that little fact over his bald, shiny head. 

“Aang,” He heard himself asking. “Are you sure that this is a good idea?” 

They were standing at the top of the skate ramp, no one was there because anyone in their right minds would stay inside during this shitty weather, holding their makeshift skateboards. At the time, when Aang had mentioned that he wanted to go skateboarding but he didn’t have a skateboard, it had seemed like a brilliant idea to make their own. (And so they did, with 4x4 plywood and wheels from an old office chair haphazardly attached.)

And, in Sokka’s defense, it _had_ seemed like a good idea. Until it was time to use it. A lot of things had started to seem like good ideas now that he’s been hanging around Aang. Like when they went sledding down that steep hill (and ended up heading straight into traffic, but by pure and stupid luck, they were fine) or how Sokka had suggested they go canoeing at _Mad River_ \--in the middle of winter--and Aang had excitedly agreed without a single thought (and they had ended up stuck and stranded until Zuko saved the two of them). So to be fair, this was one of their milder ideas, but still stupid nonetheless. 

“Don’t worry Sokka!” Aang said cheerily. “I’ll go first if you’re _chicken_.”

Sokka was very much not a chicken. With a deep breath he stood on the plywood and pushed. For a brief moment, a very brief moment, he felt as if he were flying. The wind was in his hair, biting sharp in his face but he didn’t care, and his heart felt like it was in his throat. It was exhilarating. He could finally understand why Aang was obsessed with the idea of flying. 

Then he landed on his ass, _hard_. There was a brief moment of silence, Aang had stopped his shouts of encouragement, before they both burst out laughing. It hurt his lungs, the fall was hard and it felt like someone had just kicked his ass, but it felt good to laugh. (And now he knew why Iccarus flew so close to the sun.)

There was a girl, who was walking by with her own skateboard, a _real_ skateboard, and one of the best laughs Sokka had ever heard--it was so nice, in fact, that Sokka had hardly felt embarrassed. If it were anyone else, anyone less beautiful, less kind, less cool, or just simply not be her, he would have grown flustered and embarrassed that they saw him look so stupid. But it was her, a girl with shiny short hair, eyes crinkled with laughter, and she was offering a hand to help him up. 

He was too starstruck to think of anything other than _her_.

“I’m Sokka,” He held out his hand (and later Aang would tease him about how he introduced himself and how he used a ‘sauve’ voice that made his friends cringe.) 

“Suki,” She giggled and then firmly shook his hand. 

The three of them, after Sokka had finished staring at her in awe, sat on the park bench. Suki sat between the two boys and listened on fondly as they bickered over the logistics of the ‘crank board.’ She had no clue on what they were saying, something about aerodynamics on Sokka’s part and something about _you just need to trust the board, Sokka_ on Aang’s part. The more she listened the more she descended into confusion. 

“So what’s a ‘crank board?’” She asked. 

Aang held up the plywood disaster with a proud grin. “ _This_ is the ‘crank board.’”

“Yeah,” Sokka groaned, adjusting his position on the bench. His ass still hurt. “A death trap.” 

Suki was still confused. “Are those… Wheels from an office chair?” 

“Yes!” Aang said. 

“But why?”

Aang didn’t know how to make it more clear for Suki. He had shown her what the ‘crank board’ was and had even confirmed that, yes, those were wheels from an office chair. They were at a skatepark, Sokka had crashed, and it had all seemed very simple to him. 

“To skate,” He answered. 

It was as if a lightbulb went off in Suki’s head. To be honest, when she had seen Sokka land flat on his ass, she could only focus on him. He was kind of cute, in a stupid way. And the way he sat there in a moment of shock and the arruptedly started laughing--a deep belly laugh with snorts in between each deep breath--it was like she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. She hadn’t even noticed the plywood so when they started talking about a ‘crank board’ and aerodynamics, she knew she was missing something. 

“Oh!” She excitedly said. “Badass!” 

Quickly, Sokka changed his tune. “Yeah, totally badass.” 

Sokka hadn’t felt this way about someone in a long time. Years actually. Not since Yue. For a while he had thought he was broken. No matter who he looked at, they just didn’t _do_ it for him (he wasn’t sure what he meant by _do it_ but there was none of that jittery feeling, heart beating loudly and strongly, butterflies in the stomach, and sweaty palms). He had found people attractive, like that pretty red head who worked at the front desk in his office and that cute box office boy who gave him free popcorn because Sokka simply told the _best_ jokes. But he never wanted to pursue any of them. 

Until Suki. 

And amazingly, Suki liked him back. She laughed at all of his jokes, even the bad ones, _especially_ the bad ones, and made him laugh with her own. She always listened to him ramble about his job, even when she didn’t understand what he was saying, and asked questions that made him know she was genuinely listening. They would text and call non stop daily and once a week and work out together at least once a week. 

Sokka quickly learned not to show off in the gym. (While he was pretty fit, thanks to years of working on the dock and his dad’s boat, and he was _really_ good at boxing, especially for being self taught, he was nowhere near Suki’s level of athleticism. Sokka wasn’t sure anybody really was though, so he didn’t feel too bad.) Once his ego was curbed, he actually looked forward to Suki teaching him new things, and was pleasantly surprised when Suki asked him to teach _her_ something. 

They grew close, fast. And for once, Sokka didn’t feel like the universe was out to get him. (He should have though.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. PLEASE DO NOT ATTEMPT THE DIY SKATEBOARD, I’ve been there and done that and you will not come back from it the same. And yes I’m aware that the timeline for this book is completely nonsensical… I’m just built different I guess.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to go to the ER because my body is rebelling! :D TRIGGER WARNINGS: Eating Disorders, Drug and Alcohol Abuse, Questionable Medical Knowledge

Katara wasn’t sure what to expect when she came to Aang’s apartment. His call sent worry throughout her body and it found a resting place in her bones. She had been there plenty of times since she met him a couple of weeks ago and she had immediately felt _safecomfortlove_. He would always lead her to the kitchen and make her Butter Tea, extra sugar for her and milk for him, and excitedly tell her about his new project (and then would listen without distraction as she talked about her day). 

She had a feeling, though, that tonight would be different--especially since his voice was usually so animated was stoic when he spoke to her over the phone. 

She was right. 

The atmosphere was thick with tension and Aang had quickly ushered her to the bathroom. Zuko was there, she ignored him though because something, _someone_ required her full attention. There was a girl, her body just bones wrapped tightly in greying skin, with an achingly familiar face laying in their bathtub. At first Katara was unsure if she was even breathing until her corpse-like body let out a little moan. 

“What the fuck is going on?” 

The girl in the bathtub opened her eyes when Katara spoke. _Oh_ , Katara thought, _I know her_. It was Azula, the ballerina she followed on instagram, the one she had a slight obsession over. Her eyes, the same honey brown that sparkled in her photos, were dull now under the yellowed lights. (Later she would realize how much she looked like Zuko--when you ignored the gaunt face and hollowed bones--and she would smack her head at the likeness they shared.) 

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” Azula asked. Her words were still slurring, but were nowhere near as bad as before. 

Zuko’s head shot up and that spark of fire, of determination, of Zuko’s very essence, returned to his eyes. “Azula,” He said. “Stop being a bitch.” 

Azula, in response, leaned over the edge of the tub, and vomited watery bile over Zuko’s lap. She smirked and closed her eyes as she leaned back, resting her head on the side. She didn’t care if what she did was disgusting, she didn’t care if it wasn’t ladylike, she didn’t care because she did it to _Zuko and his peasants._

Katara wasn’t sure what Zuko had shouted at her, it was in Japanese, but Azula didn’t seem to like it and rapidly said something back. While they argued she grabbed a washcloth and ran it under cool water, wringing it gently--taking a deep breath. In. Out. Act now. Ask later--before placing it behind Azula’s neck. 

She ignored the vertebrae sticking harshly out from her neck. 

“What did she take?” She asked. She asked anyone in the room, but no one seemed to want to answer. 

“We don’t know,” Zuko finally said. “But she’s clearly off her meds.”

Katara took a deep breath again. In. Out. And another one for good measure. In. Out. “Okay, so she’s clearly dehydrated and malnourished. Whatever she took is going to do a number on her. We need gatorade, lots of sugar and electrolytes, so that should help.” 

“I’ll go to the corner store!” Aang volunteered. 

“No!” 

Everyone looked at Zuko. He was the one who shouted the objection. Katara’s face grew red, whether it was from anger or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure. She raised her hands in peace and raised her eyebrows in annoyance. 

He looked abashed. “I’m her brother. She’s my sist-- I just want to help her.” 

Zuko stormed out of the bathroom and Aang followed after him. The girls could hear some shuffling in the living room and then the front door slamming shut. Outside they heard a car engine rumble to life and squeal out of the parking lot. Katara looked at Toph. Toph looked at a wall (she was hoping to look at Katara, so it’s the thought that counts). It was just Katara and Toph left. 

And Azula. 

“You know what’s really funny?” Azula slurred. 

“What?” Toph asked. Very bluntly. 

Alzula gave them a wicked grin. “The only nutrition I’ve had today was dick and gin.”

Toph cackled loudly and Katara said a quick prayer for patience. This was going to be a long night. (Katara was often right, and this was no exception. It was, in fact, a very long night.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I know this was short but hopefully it was sweet :)


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say thank you for putting up with me so far and thank you for reading :) If you’d like to give some feedback that would be great! I will be having surgery coming up soon, so updates may be slower, fyi. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Eating Disorders, Inaccurate Medical Knowledge

Azula woke up in a bed that was not her own. This wouldn’t be a first for her and probably wouldn’t be the last. (She was fourteen when she had first woken up in a stranger’s bed, he had cornered her after one of her shows, _one of her first professional shows_ , and had given her so many flowery compliments. No one had ever spoken so sweetly to her, and the next thing she knew she was in a hotel room with fresh blood between her legs. She never saw him again, she wasn’t sure why that hurt.)

She looked around the room briefly, her head felt as if someone had placed boulders on every pressure point in her body, and saw a few things that immediately made her relax. The room was tidy and almost vacant, but it had small characteristics that screamed _Zuko_. There were C.D.’s on his desk from _Love Amongst the Dragons_ , his favorite opera, and fencing gear peeking out of the closet. She felt safe. 

That feeling of safety fled her body as soon as she heard loud noises outside of the room. There were people out there--she hoped Zuko was one of them, but she never knew and it was always for the best to plan for the worse--people she didn’t know. She jumped out of bed, not knowing where she had the energy, and ignored her aching body as she grabbed the bedside lamp. She swayed a little from its weight, but quickly found her balance. 

She heard whispers outside the door and she raised the lamp up higher, ready to strike, and ignored the way her arms quivered, almost unable to endure. The door opened slowly and her heartbeat quickened. The hall light, a warm color that would have been homey in any other situation but was now more threatening than anything, was creeping into the dark room. 

Azula didn’t even bother looking at who came in, she was too busy focusing on hitting them with Zuko’s stupid-heavy-bedside lamp. 

“Ow!” A very familiar voice shouted. “What the fuck, Azula?” 

“Oh.” She said casually. “It’s just you, Zuzu.” 

“Yeah. It’s me. Who the fuck did you think I was?” 

“To be fair, I didn’t know where _here_ was, dum-dum.” 

Zuko didn’t bother replying. She had a fair point, not that he’d admit it out loud. She _was_ pretty out of it last night, he hadn’t seen her _that_ bad in a while. He flipped the light on, not noticing his sister lean against the wall to help her stay in an upright position, before he picked up the lamp and placing it back in its rightful place. 

After settling down at his desk--which he did very slowly because he was dreading the fact that he would actually have to converse with his little sister, something he was never very good at and hasn’t done in years--and finally took a good look at her. She was leaning against his wall, her nightgown and robe sliding off her bony shoulders, her hair was slightly matted (and even in Azula’s previous lows, she had never allowed that to happen. Her hair was her pride and joy), and her eyes kept darting around the room, never resting on one object. 

Something seemed off about her. (He didn’t want to admit that he knew a lot of things were off about her, that a lot of things were wrong with her.) He stood up slowly and carefully, and approached her hesitantly without dropping his guard; like he was approaching a wild animal. Zuko held his hand out to his sister, whether it was an olive branch or something else, he wasn’t sure. 

“Come on, Azula, let’s go sit down.” She didn’t move. “We don’t have to talk.” _Yet_.

“You’re lying, Zuzu. You’ve never been very good at that.” 

She still took his hand and walked gracefully (as possible) back to the bed. It was cold in here. And she was tired. So tired. She was always tired anymore. _God_ , it was cold in here. She went deep under the quilts and covers, burrowing away from the world, away from Zuko, away from Moscow, and away from _him_. She knew Zuko was watching her, she knew she should stay alert, but with her big brother being there; watching her intently, it had lulled her into a false sense of security. And she slept. 

Zuko watched his sister, just to make sure that she was really sleeping (and to make sure she was safe and really here, not just some figment of his imagination), before he left the room to talk with his friends. He dreaded that conversation too. 

Katara had managed to get Azula to drink two bottles of gatorade and a glass of mint tea. She knew next to nothing when it came to first aid or taking care of some seriously ill, but she knew more than the boys and Toph did. So she sucked it up, promised herself to ask questions later, and took care of the girl knocked out in the bathtub. (And she thought she did a pretty good job even though they did hit Azula’s head a few times carrying her to Zuko’s bedroom.)

She had called Sokka after they had Azula tucked into bed. She needed help, she was in over her head, and she wanted her brother (and maybe that’s how Azula felt earlier that night). As much as she loved calling Sokka an idiot--especially after he would end up in the E.R. after doing something incredibly stupid, like making a new and improved flame thrower--she had to admit that Sokka was somewhat of a genius. And that wasn’t even her being biased, he was an honest to God member of MENSA, so if anyone would know what to do next, it would be Sokka. 

Sokka had been watching a movie with Suki at his apartment (and he had a feeling he was about to get _lucky_ ) when he got a panicked call from his sister. He had ignored the first call. Then the second he had hesitantly ignored as well, but by the third call he was actually starting to worry, so he had answered it in a hurry. 

“Hello?” He said, trying to sound calm, but his heart was pounding because of the _what ifs._

“Sokka, you need to come here now.” 

So he did. And he brought Suki along without a second thought.

It had been a long night. And a stressful night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. We now have an established plot line mostly :)


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Today has been a good day for me, pain wise. I hope that you are doing well also. :)  
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Childhood Trauma, Sleep Paralysis,

For the first time in years, Azula remembered her dreams. They weren’t pleasant dreams but Azula had remembered them, and it gave her a feeling of control--a feeling that she craved and needed. A feeling that allowed her to not only survive in life, but _thrive_. 

In her dreams she was back in New York City, fifteen again, and wasn’t quite as broken as she was now. She was stretching in her dream, before a mirror, back in her first ballet company, _The New York Ballet Company_. (If she had control over her dream she would have told young Azula to take the lighter out of her duffle bag and burn the place to the ground. But she didn’t have control, so she stayed silent.) 

The dream was innocent but it brought her to a cold sweat. She had woken up, gripping the sheets of the bed, before looking around the dark room and seeing that she was safe. Safe enough at least. She knew her brother was here--she didn’t remember most of the night before, she knew it was bad though, bad enough that her brother kept her, and she was too tired to try and remember more details. 

Before she knew it, she was asleep again. Restless but asleep nonetheless. She knew she was dreaming, because she was back in Nice, France. Her mother was there, watching her run and was keeping Zuko by her side. She never let Zuko go too far from her sight, but didn’t carry the same worry for Azula. (The thought itself made her blood feel bitter.) 

They were at their private beach that was only a few yards from their summer home. Azula saw her favorite pink jelly sandals on her feet and knew she was back to a time where everything was safe, or maybe it was just when she didn’t know the danger that lurked in the dark. She heard her father behind her, calling for her to slow down, and heard his laugh when she started to run faster with her little chubby legs. 

Those were happy times. But maybe Azula was remembering it wrong. 

But then everything got red, so red. And dark. She knew that she was somewhere not safe. Her mind screamed _go! Wake up!_ But Azlua found herself unable to move. Her body was heavy, like that time she went out into the ocean and it had started to sweep her away, water filling her stomach, and panic weighing down her limbs (Zuko had saved her then), but she was on dry land now. 

She could see around the room. There was Zuko’s blazer-- _dear spirits that’s so outdated_ \--and over there was a framed photo of Mom. That bitch. But it was still so dark and so red. The air was heavy and she couldn’t move, could hardly breathe. 

_I’m awake!_ She screamed. _Someone help me! I’m here! I’m awake._

But no one heard her. 

Zuko’s bedroom door opened a crack, warm light shining into the room, before a boy walked in. _Oh God please don’t be him._ And for the first time in a long time, someone had answered her prayers, because it wasn’t _him_. It was a stupidly familiar face and it had taken a moment for her to place a name. 

Aang. 

He came closer to her bed, he still had the same tattoos, the same stupid face (this time without a shit eating grin and now had worry lines tucked between his brows), and it still did not put her at ease. He sat down in the chair that faced the bed and reached out to touch her palm (when had she stopped gripping the sheets?)

And like a spell was lifted, she returned to reality. 

“Hey,” He whispered. 

“Hello.” She whispered back. 

He gave her hand a little squeeze and the tension left her body (and she wished it hadn’t). 

“Would you like some warm water?” He asked. 

Azula didn’t remember saying yes, but she must have because he gave her a hesitant smile and quickly came back with a mug full of warm water. She eyed him accusingly before taking a sip, finding it was nothing but water, not even a slice of lemon, and found it satisfactory. (Ty Lee used to try and add tea leaves or even honey to give her more substance, and a distrust was formed that never diminished.) 

She must look pathetic in his eyes. There was no judgement to be seen on his face but she wished for it to be there, because that she could deal with. She knew that there was so much he could judge her for, especially after everything that she did and everything that she _was_ (and still is). He could easily hurt her, like she did to him and many others, but instead he kept giving her a comforting pat on her hand and smiled like she was just a girl. 

(At one point, not too long ago, she had desperately wanted to be just a _girl_.) 

Aang had known Azula--well, _known of her_ \--since she was just a girl and he was just a boy. He knew very bland facts about her from Zuko; she was a professional ballerina, she’s my sister, and she’s evil. He knew the rumors that went around school (before and after she left for New York), that she was a bitch, that she was rich, that she could kill somebody and get away with it--and that maybe she had already killed somebody and that’s why Zuko had disappeared from the face of the Earth. He knew only the sharp words she would sometimes throw his way, but he had never really known her (nor was he ever really interested in knowing her). 

But now he kind of wished he did. 

She was staring at him, waiting for him to strike and tensing up like she would run at the first chance. No one had ever looked at him like that before. Like he would hurt them. Like he was the predator and they were the prey. Like he was about to read them their last rights. He didn’t like that feeling. 

“You don’t have to talk about last night.” Aang said. _And for once she believed somebody_. “I’m not going to make you and I won’t let the others.”

He was about to say something else, but she had managed to croak out a question first. “Who are the others?” 

Aang lit up and spoke excitedly. “Well there’s Zuko, of course. And then there’s Toph--you might like her. It’s a hit or miss with her but _I_ think she’s great, Zuko thinks so too, but he was hesitant at first. Then there’s Katara.” Here he sighed. “ _Oh_ , she’s wonderful. And her brother Sokka! He is _hilarious_! Suki’s here too, I don’t know her too well, but she is so badass. You should see her do parkour!” 

She listened to him go on and on about his and Zuko’s friends, how they were great. Wonderful. Loving. Hilarious. Badass. And instead of it overwhelming her, like it could have and _should_ have, she found it easy to relax to. As she drank her warm water, the heated mug centering her in such a chaotic world, and the sound of Aang’s voice keeping her present, she found her strength was no longer wavering, no longer under pressure. 

It was nice. 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halloween is coming up! Super excited. I didn’t have to go to the hospital this weekend :) This chapter is loosely based on events that happened in my life :)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Glossing Over Eating Disorders, Shanking People, Delusional Thoughts

“I say we just shank ‘em.” Toph said, shoveling food into her mouth. 

It was a couple of days after the _Zuko’s Sister Surprise_ incident, and the friends, plus one, were all stuffed into the apartment’s small kitchen. There was a lot of laughing and leaning over the table to get a serving of something (whether it was so kimchi that Suki made with her grandmother or just another spoonful of rice). The dinner had no rhyme nor reason, nothing really went together and they had all just thrown together with whatever ingredients they had. A lot of shoulder touching and tight fits to sit around the small table was a guarantee, something Azula wasn’t fond of. There was also a lot of talk on how to escape prison. 

“No.” Aang said flat out. “We’re a team in this and we agreed to no violence.”

The group groaned until Katara backed him up. 

Azula couldn’t keep up. 

“How about seduction?” The boy dressed in blue asked. (Was that Sokka?)

Katara, a girl who rubbed her the wrong way because she was just so _doting_ , snorted. “Like anyone would be seduced by you!” 

The table became an uproar with laughter. It was practically shaking with the force of their enjoyment. It was too much. Azula knew that if she didn’t leave, someone was going to have a chopstick launched into their throat. (Preferably Zuko, or maybe that mother hen bitch.) So she did the respectable thing. The ladylike thing. The next best thing. She shoved her untouched bowl of rice away from her and left. 

The group grew quiet after she left. 

“What’s her deal?” Sokka asked, not slowing down on the dumplings. 

“I don’t know,” Katara answered sarcastically. “Maybe, just maybe it’s because Zuko threatened her?” 

Zuko threw his tea cup at the wall behind him and had started screaming. _You know that wasn’t a fucking threat, Katara! That was a fucking promise. Azula knew that! That’s why she is acting like such bitch!_ That had started another uproar at the table, this time one from anger. Toph had joined in immediately, pounding her fists on the table, encouraging anyone else who had felt outraged. 

Suki had tried to stay neutral, she really did, but when Katara (spirits give her patience) implied heavily that she was the only one at the table with sympathy--she had lost control over her hand and threw her bowl of rice right at the girl. It only went downhill from there, almost to a point of no return--and it was Aang who realized that it needed to be stopped _now_ before any real damage was done. 

He slammed his hands on the table, _hard_. It only took a few seconds for them to grow quiet, to stop throwing the fucking rice, and just listen. He rarely raised his voice, unless they were driving down the highway and he had his head out the window, shouting into the wind, or when they rode roller coasters. But he had never shouted at them. At least not at all of them. 

“Enough.” He said, letting his voice fall into a decrescendo. 

“Zuko,” He continued. “You _did_ threaten your sister, but that was because you love her. I think that’s the only way she would have taken the help you offered.” 

Zuko was about to protest but thought better of it. 

Aang clapped his hands. “Alright! The rest of the fight was pointless and I _really_ want to go sledding today.” 

She watched Zuzu and his little group of _friends_ , how easily they stopped fighting. How easily they ‘kissed and made up.’ How easily they agreed to clean up--even the dirt gremlin had helped some. Azula stayed quiet as she watched them move around the tight kitchen, never once bumping into one another, each person falling naturally into a role. She didn’t say anything as she watched them make her a dish of fresh white rice, writing her name on it, and placing it in the fridge. She didn’t say anything as she scurried down the hall to her brother’s room, wanting to stay reclusive. 

Mai and Ty Lee would have never yelled at her. Ever. They would have never even dared to accuse her of anything unsavoury, especially something like _threatening_ someone. (She didn’t care to think about how she wouldn’t hesitate to yell at them though. To accuse them of sabotage or disloyalty. She didn’t like how those thoughts made her heart squeeze uncomfortably in her chest.) 

The discomfort stayed in her chest as she washed her hair in the bathroom sink. She didn’t have her usual products, but Zuko’s were fine enough (though not as good as hers). The warm water and gentle massage on her scalp did nothing to ease her nerves, nor did the spicy scent of her brother’s shampoo. She refused to look in the mirror, she could never trust what she saw in it, knowing that something-someone-somewhere was mocking her with the grotesque images it produced. 

Azula felt the pressure stay on her chest, even after she rinsed her hair (she didn’t bother drying it, it’s not like she had anywhere to go after all), even as she lay on her brother’s bed. It only grew stronger and colder, and for a moment she thought she would die. But she didn’t. And she wanted to cry because she wanted to die. And she didn’t. 

Her brother’s apartment grew quiet after she heard a few _goodnight’s_ be exchanged. Only then did the pressure ease up slightly. The quiet was nice, especially since she could hear her brother and Aang bickering, the sound of dishes being washed in their shitty little kitchen, and the soft hum of a record being played. But when that was all done and silence took over, she felt her heart spike in fear--and then frustration because _she doesn’t know why._

There was a soft knock at the door. “Azula?” 

She stayed quiet. 

“Azula. It’s me. You better not be fucking naked.” 

Azula snorted. Her brother must have heard it, because he came in after. He looked at her, burrowed in his bedding, glaring at him without the force she used to have. Her hair was wet, _good, she finally bathed_ , and she was wearing some of his clothes--finally changing from her ruined nightgown from the unfortunate night. 

“Okay,” He said, trying to stay calm. Peaceful like Aang said. “We need to talk. Not about what happened, but what’s going to happen.”

He saw her eyes narrow and for a moment she looked like old self when she said, “I thought you already _told_ me what was going to happen.” 

He felt his blood pressure rise and tried to count to ten before replying. “No. I told you that you had two options, stay here under _my_ terms or I _will_ have you involuntarily committed.” 

She scowled but said nothing. 

“So look.” He sighed, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “For now, all I need from you is to stay on your meds and eat at least one bowl of rice a day. Okay?”

“If I could stab you right now, know that I would enjoy the act, Zuzu.” 

“I know, ‘La.” He grinned. 

And so it began. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Thoughts and comments are appreciated :)


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! My doctor’s appointment went kinda sorta well. How are you guys?
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: N/A I think

Aang could feel her watching him. He felt her watching him while he meditated by the window, basking in the sunrise, and he felt her watching him do the same thing yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. At first he thought it was because she didn’t feel safe in the apartment, after all that had happened, and because he was virtually a stranger to her. (But then he saw how she wasn’t skittish or even afraid of much. Not since the first few nights.) 

So he tried to ignore it. But he couldn’t. (Meditation was supposed to guide you from pain and confusion, to happiness, but dammit all she was confusing him.) He opened his eyes and caught her staring. She didn’t look away embarrassed and instead continued to hold their eye contact until he broke it with a smile. 

“Hey, Azula.” He greeted her. “Good morning!” 

“I suppose it _is_ morning.” She responded and he could tell she was trying to be polite, so he took no offence to it. 

“Do you want to join me?” _Please take this olive branch, I can’t take another morning of no meditation._

And to his surprise she sat down next to him, copying the way he folded his legs and where he placed his arms. She did it with surprising ease and held the pose a moment before giving him a look that said _continue_. Aang gave her a small smile and led her through his morning meditation and not once did she say anything snide (and it felt good to meditate with someone after such a long time). 

That was how Zuko found them, his best friend and sister, bodies’ folded in the lotus pose, quietly humming sutras. It was strange seeing his sister--practically a skeleton--meditating. If he were being honest, it was just strange to see his sister in his apartment. (It was strange watching her brush her hair each night before bed, just like when they were kids. It was strange watching her drink her warm water while watching a ballet on T.V. It was strange hearing her one sided conversations--again, just like when they were kids--when she was alone in the bathroom. It was strange just seeing _her_.)

He watched them for a moment, only a moment, before he began getting ready for the day. Start the kettle. Cut some fruit. Pack Aang’s lunch (because Aang will forget). Pack his own lunch. Get Azula’s meds ready. Make the oatmeal. Set three spots at the table. And wait. He was good at waiting. 

“I am _hungry_!” Aang announced as he walked into the kitchen. He woke Zuko up from his day dreaming. 

Azula followed quietly behind, sitting across from her brother and next to Aang. Zuko felt something (jealousy?) flare up in his chest when he saw how close she sat to his friend. Like she was hiding from _him_. But Zuko wasn’t _him_. Zuko was nothing like _him_ (was he?) So he stomped down that feeling and handed each of them a spoon for their oatmeal. 

“Why, Zuzu, don’t you look _so_ grown up.” Azula murmured around her cup of warm water. “What’s the occasion?” 

“Aang and I have a presentation in Philosophy.” He stuffed his mouth with some mango before he could say anything else (because he knew himself and he knew whatever he was going to say wouldn’t be pleasant). 

She was disappointed. Not that she knew why (maybe she had actually wanted to fight with him, or maybe she wanted him to _actually_ talk to her). “Boring.” 

And then after the boys wolfed down their breakfast and Zuko had made sure she took her medications, she was alone. Again. When the two idiots were out of the house, it left her alone. She could leave, they didn’t care, no one did really, as long as she was back by dinner time so they could watch her eat that fucking slop. Azula’s belongings were now in Zuko’s room, they picked it up from the hotel a day or two after the incident, leaving the alcohol and drugs behind. It made her ansty that they touched her stuff, that they folded it up and packed it away, that they saw anything that was _hers_ \--good or bad.

Some days she would get dressed, she definitely didn’t look _her_ best but she easily looked better than anyone in this shit hole of a state. She’d get dressed, bundle up in so many layers, and explore the city. She found a cafe she liked, it sold tea like Unlce’s but it was nowhere near as good as his. She’d take photo’s and post it on her Instagram, making it look like she was _A.Okay_. She’d flirt with the men who shamelessly stared at her, leading them on, and then humiliating them. She’d do a lot of things on those days, things that made Azula feel a little bit at home--like herself.

Most days she paced the rooms. Back. And forth. Back. And forth. Like a caged animal, ready to rip out the throat of anyone who approached her. Most days she would continue working on her stretches, refusing to fall behind, and exercising to the max. Most days it felt as if someone were watching her--and she knew this wasn’t her crazy talking, she knew she wasn’t crazy--and it made her feel paranoid, unhinged, _like him_. She had no proof that someone, something, was watching her, so she didn’t voice her concerns. 

“I know you’re watching me!” She called out. “You fucking perv!”

No answer. 

“Oh yeah. Go ahead and prove to everyone that I’m just some crazy bitch!” 

No answer. 

She tossed her hands into the air in frustration. “You know what? Go ahead. Watch me. I’m going to bed.” 

Azula crawled back into Zuko’s bed, now hers, and when the anger left her body she was exhausted. She found it easy to sleep, after sleeping twelve hours the night before, and had gentle dreams. (At the seaside with Zuko. Sand castles and seashell hunting. Helping the bitch make mochi. Chasing the birds down the sandbanks in her favorite jelly shoes. Everything was blue, everything was good.) 

Aang only had two classes today. Philosophy with Zuko and _Hope, Despair, and Memories_ , a humanities class that actually wasn’t that sad. (But sometimes, after particular class discussions he found himself staying late up at night wondering why his heart wouldn’t stop hurting. Sometimes, he found himself wondering why no one knew of his dying culture. Wondering why others weren’t as heartbroken as him when they discussed the dead and the forgotten.) He liked all of his classes, but sometimes it was nice to have the rest of your day to yourself. 

His friends were all busy, with school and work (or maybe even both), and on his walk back home he found himself wondering where Bumi was, or if Kuzon would have liked college. Spirits, the fun the three of them could have had together, the unity, the loyalty, the common history. But they weren’t here. ( _But Zuko was, and Toph. And Katara and Sokka. And Suki. And now Azula._ )

For the first time since Aang had moved into his and Zuko’s apartment, it was silent. The kind of silence that came before a disaster, the calm before the storm, the kind of silence where something bad was sure to follow. It unnerved him when he opened their front door and there wasn’t a single sound--usually, since Azual had moved in, he could at least hear her walking or the shower running, but there was nothing. 

He slid his house slippers on and carefully walked through the apartment. Azula had left an empty mug on the kitchen counter and her nail file on the coffee table. He padded silently to Zuko’s--and Azula’s, now--room, and saw her sleeping, face relaxed and looking more human than he’s ever seen her. 

He relaxed, knowing she was okay, but he couldn’t help but feel ill at ease. 

“Zuko?” Azula called out half asleep.

“No. It’s me, Aang.” He answered. 

“Oh.” She answered, now fully awake. 

Aang looked at her and before he could think he asked, “Do you want to go out tonight? Not on a date but as friends. Like a friend date.”

She glared at him. “Sure. Why not?”

(And as she got ready she let herself pretend that she was back in L.A. And Mai and Ty Lee were there, helping her get ready for a night out on the town. She let herself pretend that she was with her best friends--and that she had never hurt them in any way--and that they were going to have a _friend date_. She let herself pretend because that made this whole thing easier.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Hope, Despair, and Memory was an actual course I took. It honestly changed my perspective on our world. It was almost like an English class, but better. You got to read unique classic and modern novels, anywhere from memoirs to fantasy, discuss and create unique projects for what you’ve read/researched.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I got brunch with my girlfriends today and then went to the pain clinic. How are you guys? The concert scene is based off of my symphony days :) 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Slightly Delusional Thinking

Katara hadn’t felt nervous on stage since she was eight years old and had played with her old, local orchestra. Back then--besides having less experience--she was sure that she was being set up for some huge practical joke by her brother. That she’d get on stage, play her heart out, and then she would be laughed at for even attempting to do something _different_. But as soon as she played with the orchestra and her solo earned her a standing ovation, she only felt anxious and excited to get back onto the stage. 

For the first time in a long time, she felt nervous about performing. The wooden neck of her well loved cello was loose in her hands from sweat and a limp grip. Her bow--it needed restrung badly, and with her minimum wage job that wasn’t happening anytime soon--felt heavy in her hand, centering her like her cello should. Backstage was busy, crew members were setting up stands and chairs, her chair mates were reviewing their sheet music, and second violins were doing warm up scales (Tui and La they were flat). She was nervous because this would be her first performance in front of Aang. (If he shows up.) 

She rubbed her clammy palms down her floor length evening gown--the very one she bought on clearance and hemmed herself-- and steadied herself. He will show up. Aang is good. Aang is comfort. Aang. Aang is just Aang. (And that’s all she needed him to be.) 

Aang had told Azula to wear something nice. She wasn’t sure what he meant, his nice or her nice? She wasn’t sure where they were even going, probably some hippy store to get more of those incense sticks he liked so much, but he seemed excited about it. She found herself growing excited too. (It made her sick to her stomach to get so excited about going somewhere, what had she become?)

She had found a nice, crimson dress--Dior, she thinks--that reached the floor, and was slinky on her body. It was held up with pearl straps, her shaw was from Japan and just simply made her look so exotic (people loved calling her exotice and she’d always bare her teeth in a mimic of a smile, ignoring how that very word made her skin crawl). Her hair was done neatly, as always, her jewelry simple but made it clear that she was worth more than anyone who looked her way. Azula found herself admiring her image in the mirror, the way she could see her hip bones jut out through the expensive fabric, the way her wrists looked too dainty to hold her bracelets, how long and narrow her neck looked being held in place by strands of pearls. _She looked divine. Like a god amongst men._

“Wow! You look great, Azula.” Aang told her sincerely. 

She gave him a once over. He was wearing one of her brother’s suits that was too short on him, showing his yellow socks. His head was freshly shaved and he looked nice. For a poor person. And that’s what she had told him. (But what she really wanted to say was _you look so nice that you make expensive fabric look cheap compared to you. You look better than the models I’ve seen around the world by just wearing a hand-me-down suit. I wish I knew words of praise so I could tell you something kind, but I know very few._ )

“Gee, Azula. Thank you.” He held out his hand and she reluctantly grabbed it, making sure to dig her nails into his skin. 

Azula had only asked a few times where they were heading, but soon found herself distracted by trying to survive the car ride over. Aang drove like a bat out of hell. He’d make sharp turns without slowing down, follow traffic laws if he noticed them, and on more than one occasion he had used his knees to steer while his hands were otherwise occupied. The music on the AUX cord played random music, anything from Bollywood’s Top Ten Hits to Taylor Swift. It took more energy to stay in her seat, to stay _alive_ , than it did to find out where they were going. 

When they parked, taking up two parking spaces, she finally had the chance to take in where they were. The little shit had taken them to the City Hall Auditorium; it was bustling with people, some carrying instruments, others locking arms with their dates, but most had smiling faces. The lights made it look like a fairy tale, they were those old fashioned street lamps, and the snowflakes were slow and fat. 

Aang couldn’t read the look on her face so he laughed awkwardly. 

“Zuko likes the opera so I figured you might like classical music as well.” He said, trying to fill in the silence. 

“Yeah.” She answered softly. “I do.” 

He helped her out of the car then, making sure she didn’t step in any slush, and led her up the grand stairs. He blabbered away about how they were pretty early and how he wanted to make sure they got good seats. He talked about how he was in France he saw an orchestra, but that he was too young then to remember their name. He talked and talked, and she pretended that she wasn’t listening. (But she was.)

People stared at them as they walked to their seats. _Probably because they were a couple consisting of a tall, heavily tattooed, bald monk, and an overdressed, disgraced ballerina._ She closed her eyes, counted to ten like Zuko had suggested (fuck him, that didn’t help), and let Aang guide her to her seat. She found herself looking at his side profile as he talked with the people around him--people neither of them knew but somehow wanted to know _him_ \--and couldn’t stop the smile that took over her face. 

When they were younger, when Zuko wasn’t scarred and the Bitch wasn’t dead, and he didn’t scare her, they would go to the opera. Zuko and the Bitch loved the opera, _Love Amongst the Dragons_ being their favorite, and would go see it every summer in France. Azula would tag along too, not wanting to be left behind, and their father would always find an excuse not to go. Zuko would have this look on his face, the same one she would have when she watched a professional ballet for the first time, of enrapturement. She had thought it funny at the time. 

Aang had that same look of enrapturement while the orchestra played and this time she couldn’t find it funny. They were a decent orchestra, together and in tune, something she could enjoy, but they weren’t the best by far. She couldn’t understand what had completely taken his attention, what he devoted those pretty grey eyes (and heart) to. Until the soloist, a girl in a simple floor length gown and was holding a beat up cello, took her seat next to the conductor. 

It was that girl who had insisted on doting on her when she kept telling her to _fuck off._ (But it had felt good when she snuck ice cubes into her dry mouth and always smoothed her hair out of her face. It was nice when she took the time to make sure she was decent before she let her brother in. And as much as she wanted to hate the mother-hen like girl, she couldn’t. But Azula was good at acting.) It was the girl who only knew her from Instagram, who only knew her online personality, and only knew her in person as a bitch, but still took care of her with a prestince that even her own mother didn’t have. 

Azula was enraptured with the performance following quickly after Aang. Katara, a short stature with lean arms, hair swept back out of the way of her hands and the neck of the instrument, was easily the star of the show and had effortlessly pulled all the attention onto her. With her deep and purposeful sweeping movement of her bow, the furrow between her brow, the way she used her whole body to play the instrument. Azula felt bewitched. 

She felt like a spell was placed upon her. Like if she were to look away she would die. So she held her breath and watched. She watched and felt her heart race as the music built up in both sound and speed--she felt her feet begging to move with it, to in the very least get en pointe--and watched as Katara aggressively dug her bow into a deep downward sweep, some of the hairs breaking off of the bow from the force of it, _and oh!_ The way she lifted the bow in a purposeful stop and how she grinned impishly into the audience only for a brief moment before she started to play again, was magical. 

Before she knew it, the spell was broken, and there was no more music. She found her way to her feet as the audience clapped, giving her own standing ovation. Aang had quickly jumped up to join her, and soon the crowd followed. (She was overtaken with the magic she saw Katara perform, so similar yet so different from her own type of magic.) 

“Wow.” She said in awe.

“Yeah.” He said, equally as enamoured. “Wow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. So I know this chapter wasn’t emotional but it did make me cry. I miss playing the cello. I miss the orchestra. I miss playing with the symphony. For an example of the symphony music check out Jacquline du Pre and Daniel Barenboim--Elgar Cello Concerto on YouTube. (Jacquline du Pre is one of the masters of the cello!!)


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I’m on a roll with this story lol. Had to get a CAT Scan today and let me tell you, that is something else. How are you guys?
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Sexual Content (not really my thing to write about so sorry if it’s awkward), Eating Disorders, Purging

Zuko had a late night, he stayed after school to help tutor some girl Jun who was pretty hopeless in Trig, and then hit the gym to work out whatever frustration he had built up throughout the day. (The way Jun clung to him during their tutoring session, giving him those puppy dog eyes, _and yeah, she was cute, but Zuko didn’t need that right now_ , and how the endless history lecture had put him on edge--he doesn’t know why, it just did.) The gym helped some, but he still had that jittery feeling stuck in his bones. 

When he got back to his apartment, he noticed Aang’s car was gone and remembered something about how he was going to see Katara do something, and he almost didn’t even notice the girl sitting on the curb in front of their home. When he did see the dark figure, hunched over shivering and smoking a cigarette, he startled into a jump and immediately took a defensive stance. 

“Relax, Zuko.” A raspy voice mumbled. 

“Mai?” 

She didn’t answer and only quirked an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to help her up. He practically stumbled over his feet to offer his hand and praised the Spirits that he already had a red face from the cold weather so that she wouldn’t notice his blush. Her bony hand--it had always been bony and long, perfect for any instrument-- gripped his own sturdy one as she pulled herself up. She didn’t let go of his hand and instead wove her fingers through his. 

They stood there. Still. Silent. In the cold. Not really believing that they were seeing each other again after so long.

“Well?” She said. 

And Zuko led them into his apartment, helping her take off her coat--a black one, probably _Comme des Garcons_ , a favorite of hers, and offered her their guest house slippers. They fell into natural movements with each other, Mai letting him offer help even though she didn’t need it, and Zuko staring at her in awe. (He had always looked at her like that, ever since they were kids who still thought they ruled the world.)

She looked the same, he realized, but more beautiful. _Absence does make the heart grow fonder._ Her face was still long and narrow, with curved eyes like his--she was only half Japanese, but still managed to look so exotic, so mysterious, _in his eyes and everyone else's-_ -and a long nose. Her mouth was still small and covered in that deep shade of red she loved. She was taller now, even with her shoes off, and was almost Zuko’s height. 

(He thinks that he might still be in love with her.)

They were sitting on the sofa now, silently enjoying their tea--it was Uncle’s but Zuko was sure he messed up the brewing, he always did. He kept looking at her out of the corner of his good eye, making sure she was still real, making sure she hadn’t changed. (And she hadn’t changed that much, she still had that beauty mark near her eye. She still kept her long black hair in two, small buns and left the rest run down her back. She still had unblemished, pale skin. She was still Mai and was still so beautiful.) 

“So.” He said, breaking the silence. “Are you still modeling?” 

“Oh,” She drew out. “Only here and there. I just got back from Paris Fashion Week.” 

And it happened so fast. He wasn’t sure who initiated the kiss, though that animalistic side in him, the feral part, the _monster_ , was sure it was him. Her lips were pressed hard against his, and she had let out a gentle hum, so very much a _Mai_ sound. Zuko ran his hands through her long hair, wrapping it around his wrists like it was something to be worshipped, something that he should never let go. 

She was laying under him, naked, the moonlight kissing her pale skin, guiding his mouth. She looked at him proudly as he gazed at her body before he began to worship her. Mai ran her fingers through his hair ( _he’s changed so much,_ she realized, _he’s like the Zuko I knew and missed, the one that left_ ), tugging at the shaggy locks. It felt good, she realized, to be ravished by someone who has always wanted her, who has always called her beautiful, even before the rest of the world had. It felt good to make him lose control from want. To hear him pant in her ear. The way he drew out noises from her like no one else could. It just felt good.

They lay on the leather couch, sweaty and breathing heavily. Zuko kissed his way up her neck, his thumb tracing each slope and design of her face, before kissing her lips. _Oh, fuck. I’m still in love._ Her hand found his bicep, holding on tightly as if she might lose him (again) as she kissed back. He didn’t want her to let go-- _she didn’t want to_ let go--and she didn’t. 

“I’m cold, Zuko.” She broke their shared silence, their musings.

He climbed off of her, handing her clothes to her before he dressed himself. As she was slipping on her skirt, a now crumpled Vivienne Westwood, he disappeared and quickly brought back a blanket. She knew she should say no, but she couldn’t remember why, and found herself curling up to his side. _Safewarmhomelove_. 

After the performance, they found Katara and congratulated her. Azula tried to offer her praise, but it came off standoffish, so she stood in silent as Aang doused her in his adoration. She blushed heavily, somehow making her look even more beautiful, and held her cello like a lifeline--or maybe it was just the adrenaline from a post performance haze. She leaned against Aang, not wanting to admit that she felt overwhelmed and weak. 

They had been talking for a while, Katara and Aang, and Azula just stood there, like an idiot without thought. She wished she wasn’t thinking. She was though. All she could think about was how the performance opened a deep, ravenous feeling in her. Like the very music itself had carved a harsh whole into her torso where her stomach should be, and when Katara suggested grabbing something to eat, Azula readily agreed. 

The trio ate at some diner, greasy and not so crowded. She didn’t feel guilty about eating so much, not when her order was still so small compared to Aang and Katara’s. She didn’t feel guilty about how she ate it all, not when she was distracted by their laughter and the intoxicating buzz in the atmosphere. She didn’t feel guilt until they went up to pay the bill ( _my treat!_ Aang insisted) and she felt like there was an iron wrought in her stomach laying in her stomach, and she knew there was only one way to ease the pain, to fix the mistake. 

She slid out of the booth, to the dirty bathroom labeled _Gals_. She found herself on her knees--like she was about to pray or ask for a blessing--and stuck one of her not-so-perfect-anymore manicured fingers down her throat. And released. She emptied herself, getting rid of her mistakes and guilt, but that heavy feeling was still clinging to her as she stood up and washed her face and hands. (She felt better, but not exactly right.) 

Azula walked out of the bathroom feeling like she got away with murder. _Just like the good old days._

They stayed a while longer at the diner, Katara’s brother, Sokka, came with Suki, and he had ordered them all a milkshake. (Except for Azula, who had vehemently said no, because there were lines even she couldn’t cross.) She watched them laugh and congratulate Katara on her performance--and this was where Azula joined in, giving stilted praise _but she tried dammit._

Afterwards, they split apart, Katara joining her brother and Suki--not before hugging Azula and giving Aang a kiss on the cheek (and that action had made Azula angry and she felt like her brother for having such a juvenile reaction). The drive home was nice, Aang had filled it with harmless conversation, seeming to know she didn’t want to talk herself. (And Azula watched the snow fall gently, but in thick layers, and appreciated how different it was from Moscow.) 

It was such a nice night. Her stomach still felt heavy. 


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Kinda exhausted and not doing great healthwise, not gonna lie. How are you all doing? (It’s super lonely being in and out of the hospital, especially during a pandemic :/)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: N/A

It was the night after Katara’s performance with the college orchestra and Aang was watching Katara braid her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. He was leaning in the doorway, all ready to head out for the night, and couldn’t help but sigh. (A sigh that was filled with complete and under contentment, and tinged lightly with love. He had a lot of these kinds of sighs lately when he was around Katara.) 

The night before when Aang and Azula got back to the apartment, they were greeted with a surprise. Zuko had been brewing tea, his good tea from Uncle, and was humming softly in the kitchen. He wasn’t alone. In the living room stood a tall and imposing figure, in a dark asymmetrical skirt and a blouse that reminded Aang of a witch--he wasn’t stupid though, he knew that it was probably from a high fashion place, it just had that look to it. 

The girl-- _she looked so familiar_ \--stared right at him before looking at Azula. She greeted her in Japanese, but Azula said nothing, and just gave her an unreadable look. Azula watched as her brother came out of the kitchen, still doing that half smile thing, and wrapped his arm around Mai ( _her_ friend). She didn’t mention that Zuko had his arm wrapped around her waist, or how she was wearing their guest house slippers, or how the room smelled like sex. She didn’t mention that Zuko had already taken Mai away from her _again_ and instead she lazily tossed her Givenchy heels near the shoe rack. (It’s easier to pretend like you don’t care.)

Zuko said something in Japanese, something like _did you eat tonight, sister?_ But she didn’t really bother listening. She tried that thing where you count to ten again and it helped her bite her tongue. She wanted to scream at both of them, launch her stilettos into their throats, and have them hurt like they hurt _her_. 

Instead, she wrinkled her nose and said, “It smells like sex in here.” 

And at the same time Aang said, “Oh! You’re Mai! From Zuko’s old Insta pics!” 

The rest of the night was tense and awkward. Mai had stayed only for a couple of hours. Before leaving, she had stood stiffly in the doorway and told them she was staying at the Beifong Hotel. Aang had told her it was a good choice and Zuko smiled shyly at her, but Mai’s attention was solely directed at Azula. 

Azula knew that. Azula was also hurting. Her heart hurt. Her bones hurt. Her stomach felt so fucking heavy. And she wanted them to _hurt_. So she ignored her, tossing her shaw onto the back of the lounge chair, and glided out of the living room in an air only she could create. And they watched, she knew they watched (she didn’t know what she would do if they hadn’t).

Aang had told Katara all about it as he walked Katara from her Music Theory class to her and Sokka’s apartment. She was surprisingly quiet on the topic and the only reason he even knew she was listening was because she’d occasionally ask a question to prompt him on or explain something more thoroughly. 

But now all Aang could do was think about how beautiful Katara was. With her hair braided back out of her face, a few unruly hairs popping out of place, and eyes so big and blue staring right at him (and through his soul). How her cheekbones were so high, like the mountains in Tibet--a place he longed for and a place he never wanted to see again--and how her nose sloped so gently and softly, like fresh fallen snow. How her lips looked like they would fit so perfectly against his. He couldn’t clear his thoughts of her. Of Katara. 

“I want to kiss you.” He said from the bathroom doorway. 

She turned around from the mirror to look directly at him. “What?” 

“Can I kiss you, Katara?” He asked, still staring at her in awe. 

She nodded her head and leaned her head up. He gently brushed his lips down and onto hers. She was so soft beneath him, unheeding in her movements. Pushing and pulling. Like water she was one with him only for a moment, but _damn, why did he need to breathe?_

He rested his forehead against hers, staring into her eyes. Grey on blue. Her lashes fluttered but she held his steady gaze. Her lips were parted and she had almost asked to be kissed again, but her heart felt funny (almost like this wasn’t what she had dreamed of and more, almost like she hadn’t earned his love yet, almost like she hadn’t earned _this_ ). That thought hurt her and she found herself pushing him away. 

“We can’t do that again.” She whispered. “At least, not yet. I’m just confused.” 

Aang’s heart did a funny thing then. It flipped upside down in his chest, wounded but still buzzing in ecstasy from that kiss, and it still held hope. So he gave her a smile and looked her in the eyes, and told her so gently with all the warmth and honesty he could _it’s okay. I understand._

(Oh how can I ever deserve this man?) 

They drove, laughing and shrieking at Aang’s driving skills--Katara still couldn’t drive, she just couldn’t pass that damned test, no matter which state she was in--and made a pit stop at Toph’s place. (The Beifong Residence was a Victorian manor, with rolling hills of trees and land, the back with beautiful gardens that have been featured on T.V. and magazines, and a required two live-in-maids.)

“Imagine living there,” Katara said as they idled in front of the house, waiting for Toph to come out. 

“I dunno.” Aang shrugged. “Seems kinda big for three people.” 

“But it’s _history_ Aang! It’s two hundred years old!” 

“That is cool.” A moment of silence. “Do you think they have secret doors and stuff?” 

Another moment of silence before she answered, “Probably.” 

They heard the front door to the house, _pardon_ , manor slam shut. There was screaming and the well known voice of Toph could be heard shouting vulgarities back at her. Their friend, dressed in usual dirty jean shorts and some kind of flannel sweat-shirt that read _Pig Feet_ , climbed into the back seat and slammed the door. 

“Hurry!” She barked out. “Start that motherfucking engine, Twinkletoes! We gotta go!”

Aang hurried. (Aang also just liked having an excuse to drive fast.) His car, lovingly dubbed _the rust bucket_ , creaked and groaned under the sudden speed, but soon found a gentle hum after it settled in. Katara didn’t laugh when he made a sudden turn, this time--she was occupied with trying to get Toph to put a fucking seatbelt on and asking her _what’s wrong, Toph?_

They drove for a while, in silence except for Katara’s _Friday Afternoon Joyride_ playlist crackling on the radio. Toph had stopped her angry mumbling and was now wiping away her not-tears-damn-you. Katara fiddled with her phone, not really doing anything productive with it, it just opening and closing the same app. 

“What’s the plan?” Aang asked. “I have a full gallon of gas and no classes this afternoon.”

The silence hung in the air and the only one could break it was Toph. Toph was good at breaking things, and she did just that. She opened her mouth, not really knowing what she was going to say, only really knowing that she was just going to say _something_ , and fixed the worried atmosphere. 

“Well I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.” 

Toph was always hungry when she didn’t want to talk about something. Katara and Aang shared a look, and found themselves driving to the boulangerie for some fresh bread and cheese. Toph was hungry and they were not going to talk about it. And that was that. (And if anyone noticed that her eyes were puffy and how her voice was a little hoarse, no one mentioned it as they sat in the now abandoned Radio Shack parking lot, eating their overpriced bread and cheese.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I’ve been feeling super sappy lately so expect more kissing scenes ('-'*ゞ


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry for the delay in updating. I was back in the hospital over the weekend. This chapter is kinda shit, but oh well :/
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Delusional Thinking, Eating Disorders,

The months passed quickly for Azula. Spring Break was quickly approaching and she found herself carving a spot out in each of her ~~family~~ ~~friends~~ peoples’ lives. (She worried though, that maybe she had forced her way into their lives, that they didn’t truly want her there. That they didn’t want _her_.) The group had settled into each others’ habits, like puzzle pieces finally connecting with their missing partner. She wouldn’t say that they had a daily routine--not with the spontaneity that each person possessed and with the way everyone seems to attract weird occurrences/problems--but it was predictable enough for her. 

Spring Break was approaching fast around the corner. Winter was fading each day into something warmer, something with more life, something with more hope. Ideas were being tossed around-- _let’s go to Mexico this time! or maybe New York City!_ \--and plans were starting to take form (and somehow Azula was being included). 

“Azula,” Katara said. “How does this skirt look?” 

Azula looked at Katara, standing proudly in the dressing room, hands on her hips showing off the cute blue mini skirt. Her toned, honey brown legs made the blue stand out vividly against her skin. It was a simple skirt. But she made it look like a vintage Versace piece--jealousy, a hot and savage thing, bubbled up inside of her. 

“Why didn’t you ask me, Sweetness?” 

Katara blushed. “I’m sorry, Toph. Hey! Wait a minute--” 

She found herself staring at her own reflection, not really caring about what those two idiots were arguing about, and couldn’t tear her eyes away from the image in the mirror. _Who the fuck was that looking back at her?_ She was wearing last season's sweater--a burnt red color-- not that these small town people would really even know or care about. Her tweed slacks, Chanel, a classic, were growing tight on her hips and thighs. Her Tabi boots were scuffed. She looked like a fucking nightmare. 

_When had she grown this disgusting? When had she let the monster in the reflection become her? She wanted to tear her fucking eyes out and salt her wounds in punishment for falling this far. For becoming human in the worst way possible._

“You look fine.” She snapped at Katara. 

When Azula was seventeen and still believed that she ran the world--that she and her father had enough money and enough power (and they probably did and still do) to get whatever she wants--she had thought herself something like a blessing to society. To the Earth. To the universe. 

She had no reason not to think like that. Not when she had been told that. Not when she _knew_ that. 

“Azula!” Ty Lee linked her arm through her friend’s. “We’re going to be late for our dinner reservations.” 

Azula hadn’t seen her friend in a while. For a few months in fact. Ty Lee’s parents had wanted her to study abroad for a semester before she graduated high school, something Azula thought was pointless. (Azula wasn’t even going to high school at the moment, her career was too important.) But Ty Lee was back and over excited to catch up. And Azula pretended like she wasn’t excited to see her again so soon (but she was). 

Their reservations were at some new five star restaurant in Moscow. You had to have connections to even get a reservation, something the girls’ had since their childhood, and was a trendy little place celebrities and the like visited often. _The Blue Room_ was the place to be at the time, something Azlua and Ty Lee knew but didn’t really care. 

“So there we were, _in the ghetto,_ with no cell service at all because we let this chick--who said she could read Korean but obviously couldn’t!--give us directions.” Ty Lee said before laughing that bubbly laugh of hers. “You would have loved Korea, Azula.” 

She eyed her friend over her glass of champagne. Her skin was paler than when they lived in San Francisco together, but she still had her signature braid that now ended at the small of her back. She wore a baby pink Dior dress--from this season’s collection--and was glowing from happiness. Or maybe she was high. 

“Ty Lee, you sound almost plebian.” 

“Sorry, Azula. I just got carried away.” She blushed and took a sip from her wine. “Tell me about you.”

Azula grinned, sharp and ready to sink her teeth into some flesh, now that she had Ty Lee back in a place she could control. A place she could navigate. A place she knew well.

(And she found herself giving that same grin to Katara.) 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Katara.” She said. “You look nice. Pretty.”

Katara’s face softened. “Thanks, Azula.” 

(And she knew that she was getting bad again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Would anyone be interested in side stories for this fic?? Like I have a bunch of shorts that didn’t make the cut for the actual fic, but are super good :(( Let me know in the comments!


	21. Chapter Twenty One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so updates might be a bit slower because I’ve taken a turn for the worse (I’m not gonna die, I’m just miserable lol). 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Alcohol Abuse, Animal Cruelty (past), Mentions of Domestic Violence

It was the first day of Spring Break and Azula found herself drunk. It was ten in the morning.It was ten in the morning and she was already drunk. (It had started off with just one mimosa, then another, then another, until she lost track just how many she actually consumed.) Everyone was busy--shoving their luggage into the back of Sokka’s mini van, getting the snacks ready, going over last minute details--and Azula was sitting on the parking lot curb, sipping her _who knows how many_ mimosas. 

She watched as everyone laughed and goofed off together, the way Aang and Sokka kept bumping their heads together on accident, how Katara kept nagging Toph, and she was beginning to lose track on how many times Suki laughed at every stupid thing Sokka said. Mai would be meeting them in twenty minutes (she wanted to see her so bad, tell her how it feels like her heart is drowning and how she wants to claw her way out of this fleshy prison) and will probably cling to Zuko. 

Her nerves felt fried. She felt freed and anchored all at once. Like she was in a prison that she _could_ escape so very easily, but wasn’t. Wouldn’t. (Why won’t she?) 

“‘La,” Zuko called over. “Is your suitcase packed?” 

Of course it was packed. Despite her complaints, she had actually looked forward to this trip for _weeks_. She had carefully put together each outfit and had placed each folded garment, with shaky hands, purposefully and delicately in her suitcase. There was so much thought put into that old beat up Louis Vuitton case, that it could probably be considered a memoir. _Or maybe a journal._

Azula took a moment to answer, making sure her words came out clear and not slurred together. “Yeah, they’re packed. _I’m_ not putting them in the car though. You’ll have to do _that_.” 

Zuko glared at her, but followed her demands anyway. He found it easier to not argue with her, to not give in on the stupid stuff, the meaningless stuff. To not give in and waste his energy on anger. (He loved her but he found it was a constant battle to not lash out at her, to be patient and not fall into her habits.) 

When they were young and dumb, and believed the world was created for _them_ , Zuko and Azula would go to their little summer home in Nice, France. Mom was with them then and Father would still give out smiles to him--never as much as he did with Azula--and things were good. Mostly. Those summers were filled with sea shell collecting, swimming, sandcastle building, chubby legs running, and the mantra of _Azula always lies._

He was eight and she was six, and it was one of their last summers in France (as a family, as a whole). _Father had started to yell more, had started not controlling that viscous side that hurt them so, so much. Mother had started to get paler then. And thinner, and so, so silent then._ But Zuko and Azula didn’t really notice that, because they had much more serious things to worry about. 

“Lala look!” Zuko said, holding out one of his practice _foils_ (a sword thin and lightweight, and something he was _very_ good with). He struck a position he had just learned, he was already in the advanced classes and had wanted to desperately impress his little sister. 

She got that glint in her eye when she saw the way the foil glinted in the sun, and Zuko knew then that something bad would happen--he wasn’t sure what or how, but he just _knew_ \--because Azula had practically trademarked that glint in her eye. (A glint that promised damage, pain, and crying. A look he knew well.) He immediately became on guard. 

“That looks so cool, Zuzu!” She said in her sugar sweet voice. “Do you want to play prince and princess with me?” 

He let down his guard at that. He _did_ love to play prince and princess, even if it was with _her_. It was a fun game. The prince and princess would fight monsters and help save the kingdom for their king. They would go on exciting adventures and see places beyond their imagination, and Zuko was the _best_ prince out there. (And had to grudgingly admit that Azula was an okay princess.)

They raced down the sand dunes, Mom was asleep (she had already opened the wine this morning) and Father was talking angrily on the phone with somebody. It was just him and her. Like always. (And like it always would be.) He had brought his foil at his sister’s insitience and the game had started off relatively simple. _And they were having fun._

“Oh, look!” Zuko said. 

He was pointing to a seagull that was lamely limping around the beach. It was clearly injured and was pathetically cawing for some help (or something, someone, so it won’t die alone and afraid.) Without realizing it, he was heading towards it--not really sure how he was going to help, he just knows that he’s going to _try_ \--with Azula following behind him, her little legs moving fast to keep up. 

She sneered at it. “I’ll help it, Zuzu.” 

Azula grabbed his foil, a relatively harmless weapon, and plunged the thin blade into its breast. The flexible metal bent from misuse, but still found its way home into the seagull’s chest. The bird let out a horrible scream that sounded so very human, like when Daddy hit Mommy with the fireplace poker, and she found herself wanting to pull the blade from the animal. 

But it was stuck. So she shoved it further in hoping to end the screams, but the bird continued to call out desperately for help. Zuko was grabbing at her, sobbing and had snot running down his face, and she felt frozen, horrified that the damned bird wasn’t _dying_. (She had really thought that she was helping it, putting it out of its misery, but she was young and dumb, and didn’t know that a foil was barely even considered a _practice_ sword.) 

She wanted to cry, but found that she couldn’t. 

They had left the bird, barely grasping onto life, foil still lodged forcefully in its breast, and ran back to the house. 

“ _You’re a monster, Azula_.” Mommy had said. “ _You’re nothing like a little girl should be._ ” 

And that was the last day the bitch was called _mommy_. 

Zuko missed those days. The days when Azula was a little terror, but something he knew and could live with--nothing like she was now, unhinged, vapid and feral, but then so sweet and docile at the strangest of times--back when he _knew_ her. He missed the summers in France where they were all a family. He missed _Mom_.

So he put her suitcase in the car and ignored the way she drunkenly stumbled her way to the back seat. (Instead he focused on the way Mai gave him the faintest of grins and how his heart beat in the most cliche way.) He ignored how when Sokka started the engine she pulled out a mini bottle of vodka and shared shots with Toph and Suki in the backseat, and instead focused how warm Mai’s hand was, and how it fit perfectly woven into his. 

“Baltimore, Maryland here we come!” Sokka shouted and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. 

“Wait!” Toph shouted in sudden anger. “You told me we’re going to New York!”

It was a long drive, luckily Azula was drunk enough to enjoy it, and sober enough to remember it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I’ll be posting some side stories soon that didn’t make the cut for the fic! :)


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I’m out of the hospital and just taking things easy. How are you guys? 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Alcohol Abuse, Delusional Thinking, Intrusive Thoughts

Suki couldn’t stand the thought of going back to the Hamptons and staying with her grandma over Spring Break. She loved her grandma, she loved her with all of her heart and very being, and she loved her childhood friends, but the very thought of going back home--to the place she wasn’t allowed to leave until she went to college--made her skin itch and heart sink. So when Sokka had casually invited her to join them on their little road trip (he had taken vacation days so he could join his friends and sister), she had said _yes!_

She didn’t know them as well as she knew Sokka, but she planned to change that fact during this trip. (Because she couldn’t believe she was actually hanging out with people _this_ cool.) So that’s how she ended up in the passenger seat, in charge of the AUX cord (Aang had lost his AUX privilege three minutes into the trip), and hoped to all that is holy that they liked her taste in music. Suki tried to find something that they would all like, she really did, and had only felt reassured when Sokka gave her hand a loving squeeze. 

(And she felt herself relax.) 

“So,” Sokka said, using his ‘suave’ voice. “You ever been to Baltimore?”

Suki looked at him, his pretty blue eyes and strong jawline, and wanted to kiss the wrinkles that formed around his eyes when he smiled. She wanted to kiss him all the time, something she thought was only possible in those stupid teen romance novels or in those Hallmark movies. She wanted to kiss him when he laughed, when he was asleep--his face was always so peaceful then, no worry lines, no furrowed brow when he thought too hard--and she found herself staring at it often, and when he said something so sweet without meaning to. (“Suki, I saw a _super_ fat cat today. I wish you were there with me to see it.” And he’d always say it with that stupid grin she loved.)

She laughed. “No, I’ve only been to Maine and New York City for the _tessenjutsu_ championships. This is my first vacation outside the Hamptons.”

Sokka blushed and opened his mouth like he was going to say something. He thought better, chickened out really, and instead rubbed his thumb in a soothing pattern on the back of her hand. (Damn, he really loved her.)

After a sixteen hour drive, a trip that should have only taken elven but was inevitably delayed because of Aang’s excessive rest stop and for that for a brief moment Sokka forgot Toph was blind and put her in charge of directions--it had taken an embarrassingly long time before any of them had figured out that Toph was _blind_ \--they had arrived in Maryland only to realize that their hotel was more of a motel. 

It was a dingy little place that had clearly seen better days. It would have probably have even been a nice place back in the day, with what once looked like a neatly kept garden that lined the walls--now overgrown, ivy climbing the walls lined with cracks and had stones falling haphazardly about it--and a gazebo that sat near the pool that needed a good paint job. There was an ambience to it, not necessarily good nor bad, but it definitely had a certain undertone to it. A certain _vibe_. 

They stood there, none of them really saying anything, in the dimly lit parking lot. No one made a move to head towards the front door. (This looked nothing like the pictures online and everyone had felt a little jipped about it.) The air was starting to cool, the days were temperate but the nights were still bitter and sharp in the East Coast, and _someone_ had to do something. 

It was Aang who broke the silence with, “Well, Bumi said it was nice when he was here last, so I’m sure it’s better than we’re expecting!” 

“Aang.” Zuko deadpanned. “There is literal police tape over that window.”

“It could just be Halloween decorations,” Suki piped in. 

“When was the last time Bumi came here?” Zuko demanded. “The seventies?”

Aang didn’t answer him because Zuko was right and he didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. Instead, he grabbed a hold of his suitcase (a brown thing that was missing a few zippers and he wasn’t really sure where the stain on the inside came from, that he has had since he was twelve), and marched inside. The check-in was easy, the man at the front desk--who had an unusually long ponytail--asked very few questions and had even given him a slight discount. 

(And he _was_ right, the motel wasn’t that bad.) 

Their rooms were spacious enough with plenty of pillows and extra bedding. They had working T.V.s ( _In Color_! their pamphlets said). And above all else, it was clean. Clean was important. Clean meant no bugs and no random heroin needles lying around, waiting to spread diseases. Clean was something Aang could appreciate and so he did so by saying a silent sutra of thanks. 

He slept easy that night. The boys and Toph had taken one room while the girls took the other room. There were no dreams for once, no dreams of _runningcryingfalling_ , nothing but peace for once. Nothing but peace and the sound of Toph snoring. (Life was good.)

Azula had slept like shit the first night in the motel. She had started to sober up by the time they made it to Baltimore and after showering off the stink of travel, she was wide awake and mind no longer numb. Mai had shared the bed with her, laying so still and silently, Azula feared that she was dead. (So she would watch her chest, to make sure she could see it move with each breath. In. Out. In. Out.) Katara had slept in the bed next to them, falling asleep first and maintained a peaceful expression throughout the night. 

Azula did not sleep. Azula watched. (She watched to make sure Mai was still breathing and watched how Katara spoke words in a language she didn’t know. She watched Suki, who had curled up so small beside Katara, that it took a moment for Azula to even find her beneath all of the bedding. She watched as the night grew stiller and still could not find the calm that came with it. She watched the reflection in the mirror mock her.) And thought. (She thought about how easy it would be to just get up and leave, disappear into the night like one of those knock-off Agatha Christie stories. How it would be so easy to leave everything behind, go to the ocean and let it take her back to a place she used to call home. How it would be so easy to let her body lay at sea and rot. How kind it would be to everyone around her if she just left.) 

She was getting bad again. (And this made her feel sad.)


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! How are you? I’ve started a new nerve blocker and it seems to help some. My birthday is coming up on Sunday! These pain pills are WACK. My body? WACK. But my heart? She’s tight as FUCK. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Not Quite a Mental Breakdown, Misuse of a Pocket Knife

Azula remembered asking the Bitch what made someone human. She was never a curious child, that was more of Zuzu’s thing, but she was an observant child. While Zuko would ask _why_ she would watch and figure it out herself, to watch and see the who/what/when/where/why/and how. (Zuko was impatient, would stomp his foot and demand answers, but Azula had no problem waiting and seeing.) But she was six years old and didn’t know every answer, so she asked the Bitch, _what makes someone human?_

The Bitch took a sip of champagne. “Do you want to try someone, Azula?” 

Azula, always wanting to be an adult, always wanting to impress, firmly told her, “Yes.” 

(She had scrunched up her nose at the yeasty taste, not liking how it bubbled up on her tongue. She didn’t complain though or make a comment that it was _disgusting_ , and waited for the Bitch to answer her question.)

“You asked a difficult question, ‘La.” Her mother said before a thoughtful look appeared on her face. “I suppose we have love and emotions. We do silly things for love, don’t we?”

Azula didn’t understand but said she did. 

The Bitch sighed, “And when we hurt, that makes us human, I suppose. Sometimes I wish I were one of those little ducklings in your picture book, so carefree.” 

Azula didn’t feel very human at the moment. She didn’t feel real as she stood in the bathroom with the door closed, her friends sleeping just a few feet behind it, and as she stood under the flickering lights. The pocket knife didn’t feel real in the palm of her hand, it felt cold and heavy, but very much not real. (Her reflection smiled at her and suddenly Azula felt very small.) 

She didn’t feel human as she took her hair out of its loose knot and watched it tumble down around her shoulders (and it looked so dark and so much like the Bitch’s). She didn’t feel human as she raised the knife to the strands. She didn’t feel human as she hacked away her hair, sawing and pulling against her scalp. 

But, when her hair was jagged and uneven, lopped so ugly against her head, and when there was a pile of dark strands on the bathroom floor, she felt very much real. 

The bathroom door opened. 

“Oh Azula,” Suki said, suddenly very much awake. “What did you do?” 

Suki had been raised by her great aunt Kyoshi since she was a toddler--along with her five cousins--and had shared a room with at least two of her cousins for just as long. So when she had woken up, for no reason other than something didn’t feel _right_ , it had been based on instinct and intuition. When she saw the bathroom light on and Azula’s side of the bed empty, she acted before she could even form a thought. 

And there was Azula, standing in front of the little mirror that hung over the sink, eyes bloodshot and wide open, with a pocket knife in her hand. Her hair was cropped short in some areas, jagged and uneven in the rest. It was clearly done without too much of a thought or worry, based off of how much was on the ground. 

All she could say again was, “Oh, Azula.” 

She took the blade from her, not really worried she’d hurt herself, and had her sit on the side of the bathtub. She didn’t say a word to her as she brushed her hair out, seeing what damage was done, before getting to work. (It would have been easier if they had scissors or a sharper blade, but Suki bit her tongue, and stayed silent on that matter.) It was actually soothing to run the blade through her hair, using something that should cause damage to fix something. 

Growing up in a house full of girls, you learned a few things, and Suki suddenly felt nostalgic doing Azula’s hair--even if they were sitting in a shady motel room bathroom, using a pocket knife to cut hair. She missed the nights her and her cousins would giggle while they washed each others’ hair. (She missed the sisterhood filled with secrets and tragedy and all things sweet and bitter.) 

“There,” She said. “That looks better.”

Azula stood up from the edge of the bathtub, ignoring the way her bones protested (suddenly feeling too old for this earth), and looked into the mirror. She had bangs now, short and straight across her forehead, softening the harsh edges of her face, and making her seem younger--or maybe just her age. Her hair was no longer to her waist and now just brushed her shoulders, Suki couldn’t take care of the jagged look, but now it seemed purposeful instead of done in a craze. 

She didn’t recognize the person staring back at her. She hadn’t been able to for a while now. 

“Yeah.” She said, still staring into the mirror. “That’s better” 

She wanted to say thank you. Thank you for not leaving me alone. Thank you for taking the knife from me before I did something incredibly stupid. Thank you for not asking questions. Thank you for fixing my hair. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you. But she couldn’t force the words out her mouth. 

Instead she settled on saying, “I owe you one.” 

And Suki seemed to understand because she said in return. “How about we get some coffee together sometime and then call it even?” 

The two girls then grinned and laughed together, before trying to quiet down because no one wanted to wake Katara up (and deal with her acting like a fucking monster). They walked out of the bathroom together, turning the light out and closing the door, before climbing back into their respective beds with a shared secret. 

(That everything is going to be okay.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. So my body does not know how to NOT act up and I couldn’t do anything for Halloween because of it. How are you guys though???


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry I’ve been AWOL. I just got out of the hospital, I was in the ICU for a few days LOL. Feedback is much appreciated :))
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Delusional Thoughts, Maybe Alcohol Abuse (definitely alcohol use)

“Hey, Aang?” Katara whispered. 

They were separated from the group. It was their last day in Baltimore and after a great deal of arguing the group had decided to go hiking. They took the Avalon Loop trail, it was about twenty miles or so long, and looped around two settler homes that the brave (and stupid) could explore. It was about two in the afternoon, just after lunch, and Katara and Aang had fallen behind the rest of their friends. 

Aang could still hear their group. It was hard not to, when Sokka was shouting something about edible fungi, and Zuko was shouting back  _ no! Sokka don’t you dare put that in your mouth! _ He and Katara were far enough behind that they couldn’t be seen by their friends, but they could still hear each other. (And he kind of liked that.) 

“Yeah?” He asked, watching the river and the way it seemed to glow beneath the sun. 

“I kinda want you to kiss me right now.” 

His head jerked up in surprise (and hope). She was blushing. She stood tall though, chin pushed up and her blue eyes holding his determinedly. He wanted to so desperately kiss her, he wanted to kiss her a lot (he wanted to kiss her good night and good morning everyday, he wanted to kiss her goodbye and hello, he wanted to kiss her just for the hell of it). 

“Are you sure?” He wanted to hit himself for asking, but the words tumbled out before he could fully form a thought. 

She giggled then and the tension lifted from both of their shoulders. “Yeah.” 

Aang felt himself blush but wasted no time. His lips pressed against her’s, pressing against her with much more force than their last time, and sighed when she moved her lips with just as much vigor. Kissing her was still like the water, but instead of soft and unheeding movements there were crashing waves on weathered rocks, making him feel very much like a drowning man.  _ Pushing _ and  _ pulling _ . It was like she was filling his lungs and letting him sink into her, dying a beautiful and wonderful death. 

And then they pulled apart. (This time he only damned himself a little that he needed to breathe.) And like last time, he rested his forehead against hers, panting, and pulling in shallow breaths. Her lips were parted and he couldn’t look away from them, her lip gloss-- _ Spirits, _ it tasted like cherries--had smeared, and with her eyes heavily hooded and cheeks blushed so thoroughly, she looked utterly  _ debauched.  _

_ Oh. _

He pulled back so suddenly that they had both lost their balances, and stumbled to the ground. Katara stared at him in shock, she had been daydreaming of kissing him again, letting him run his tongue across her bottom lip, and then so suddenly he had shoved her away. He had shoved her away.  _ Away. _ Ever since they had first kissed all those nights ago, back in Maine, back when it still snowed and the radiator rattled as it heated her and Sokka’s apartment, she had laid awake late at night wondering what it would have been like if Aang would kiss her again. And then he  _ had _ kissed her again, and it was so much better than she could have imagined. 

And then he pushed her away. 

“What the heck, Aang!” She shouted. 

They were still on the ground, neither moving from where they had landed. She had been cold just moments before, but between the kiss and her righteous anger, she felt her blood warm as she stood up--brushing the dirt and whatever else clung to her, off. He stayed sitting down, eying her wearily as she shouted at him (and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that she should ask him  _ why _ before reacting like this, but she couldn’t get herself to stop.) 

“Katara, I--” She cut him off. 

“No! What  _ was _ that? Why did you kiss me and hold me so gently, and then you just  _ shove _ me?” She continued shouting.  _ You just shove me  _ away?

Aang stood up then. He could hear the birds singing a song of spring, he could hear the river gurgling, and the bushes around them rustle with life and activity. He could hear their friends up ahead--Sokka laughing loud enough to scare the wildlife off, Toph shouting about finding a cool new rock for her rock collection, Suki giggling, Zuko shouting  _ ouch _ , and could even hear Azula’s feint cackling--their collective noise growing further and further away. 

He could also hear Katara’s stilted breaths, short and sharp in her anger. (And he could see her cheeks no longer flushed with debauchery, but with embarrassment and rage. There were tears building up in the corners of her eyes, so blue, so beautiful, now rimmed red. Her hair was coming undone, and  _ he wanted to kiss her again _ .) He reached his hands out, firmly resting them on her shoulders. 

“Katara, I’m sorry.” He said. He made sure to make his voice clear, firm, and sincere. (He couldn’t afford to mess this up.)

She looked at him, waiting.

Aang took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I really,  _ really _ , liked kissing you. Spirits, I want to kiss you again, but back in February you had told me you were unsure and not ready. I didn’t want you to feel like that again--” He cut himself off before continuing. “I wanted to kiss you again so badly, but I didn’t want to mess up. I panicked, and I’m sorry.” 

And suddenly everything was okay. (She had remembered why her heart beat so wildly and loudly for this boy. Why she wanted to protect him so fiercely and hold him so close to her beating heart in such a savage and primal way.  _ Mine. _ ) 

She grabbed his hand, weaving her fingers through his, before kissing the back of his pale, and bony hand. 

“I forgive you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.” Katara held her gaze, making sure to never leave his eyes. She needed him to know she was being completely and utterly canid, her heart filled with nothing but honesty. “I’m scared and I  _ do _ want to take things slow. But I always mean what I say, and that includes kissing you.”

They stayed like that, holding hands, and gazing at each other. (And Katara knew then that she would forever and always love this boy.) He gave her hand a loving squeeze, not letting go of it, before telling her that they should catch up with the others. 

(And he knew that he would never stop loving her.) 

It didn’t take them long to catch up with the others. They were only about a half mile ahead, just off the path, loitering beside the river. Toph had her shoes and socks off, toes buried in the mud and sand. She had been the first to notice they were back. 

“Where the hell were you guys?” She asked. 

The others had stopped what they were doing. They were kind enough to not comment on their linked hands. 

“So!” Aang chirped. “Let’s finish this trail!”

It was evening by the time they had finished hiking. Azula hadn’t complained once, not even when it felt like blisters were forming from wearing improper shoes, not even when she felt weak and exhausted from lack of sleep the night before, not even once. She stayed silent. (She stayed silent even when she had felt the questioning stares of her brother, burning holes in the back of her head.) 

They had decided on eating dinner at a bar and grille near their motel. It was in the historic district of their city, with beautiful stonework. On the inside, it was simple, with tall ceilings that still had the bronze tiles with cherub engravings, and a mixture of industrial and antique interior. It was chic, and Azula felt severely underdressed. 

She was wearing clothes she didn’t really care for (and had hoped would be ruined on their hike so she would have a reason to burn them, but luck and life never worked on her side). Her jeans were Coach and hung loosely on her hips and she didn’t even remember buying her shirt--it was a Burberry blouse and if she were in her right mind she would have remembered being gifted it by the Burberry PR, but she wasn’t in her right mind, and she didn’t remember. The only thing that was really, truly ruined, were her shoes, her God awful Balenciaga sneakers that were more for looks rather than comfort. 

Azula wanted to scream at everyone in the bar.  _ Shut the fuck up, stop staring at me. _ She wanted to toss beer on the young college boys that sat in a booth near the entrance, that laughed just loud enough to grate her nerves. It felt as if everyone were staring at her, as if everyone knew she wasn’t at her best, as if everyone knew what she looked like before she fell this far. She wanted to say vicious and cruel things, before they could say vicious and cruel things to  _ her. _ (She wanted to burn the place to the fucking ground before they could burn her at the stake.) 

Instead, Azula scrunched her nose in obvious distaste, and said in her best brat voice, “God, this place is disgusting.” 

And as her friends ate, having built up a healthy appetite after hiking twenty miles, she felt her chest grow heavy with pressure, and her stomach sink in dread. She ate a salad, knowing Zuko had a watchful eye on her, promising herself that one day she  _ would _ make him pay for everything he forced down her throat (she wouldn’t but the thought brought her comfort, a guilty sort). 

But a thought kept bugging her, nagging her out of her self deprecation and despair. “Toph, why do you have a rock collection if you can’t even see?”

“Azula!” Katara admonished. “You can’t just say that.” 

Toph let out a boisterous laugh before she answered the question, not seeming to mind Azula’s faux pas. “Just because I can’t see doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy something. Some rocks are big, some are small. Some have cool textures, others are smooth. I like digging through the sand, dirt, and mud, and just finding the cool shit.” 

She watched Toph, her  family  friend, as her face grew flushed with excitement. Toph continued on with her speech, unaware that the rest of her friends had stopped and listened with fond smiles. “Rocks are just so fucking cool, man. Once, I even found a fossil! Have you ever run your fingers over the indentations of vertebrae from thousands of years ago? It’s so fucking cool.” 

  
Azula still had that sinking feeling deep in her chest. But the alcohol warmed her breathing corpse. (And maybe it won’t be so bad this time, surrounded by  family  friends.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I hoped you enjoyed the chapter. If you can’t tell, I really really really miss hiking with my friends. I don’t think I’ll be able to anytime soon. If you are ever in Maryland, this is a real and beautiful trail to hike! I went last summer before my health got too bad, my friends and I took a road trip, I brought my paints along and painted some of the scenery we hiked to. The East Coast has so many cool places to see. Are you guys into hiking or like outdoors stuff?


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Still out of the hospital and I feel okay. I am on bed rest, but who gets prescribed bed rest in the twenty-first century?? Thank you all for your love and support! <3
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Alcohol Abuse, Familial Death

Spring Break had ended uneventfully. The road trip was about the same back to Maine as was on the way into Maryland, Sokka drove again and Aang took the passenger seat this time--everytime he looked at Katara his face would go bright red and would look quickly away--and played his ‘special playlist.’ (His playlist had more consitiency than what Zuko was expecting, and would lull him into a false sense of security, before giving him sudden whiplash. The diversity in the music he had was  _ great _ , but under no circumstances should Hadyn be followed by WAP.)

No one had taken the AUX cord from Aang and his content little smile had said all that needed to be said.

Azula found that everyone quickly fell back into routine when they had arrived back at home, (When had she started considering this God forsaken state as  _ home _ ?) if not a bit more frenzied than usual--college finals were approaching fast and Sokka was complaining about some kind of project deadline. Her brother and Aang started to study late into the night, their incessant typing and complaining had her growing anxious, pacing the house like a caged animal. Mai had gone back to LA, to settle some things with her family and her presence was required in court, leaving Azula feeling abandoned (even though she  _ knew _ that not to be true). And Azula couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck was wrong with her.

The first funeral she had ever been to was her grandfather’s. She could hardly remember him, his face was just a blurry and wrinkled mess. He was a traditional man, down to his very bone, and refused to wear western clothing and instead wore his kimono to his death bed. (She remembered the cotton yukatas in the summertime, and secretly delighted when he wore his haori in the colder months, liking the way it made him look like a king.) She didn’t know her grandfather well, not as well as Zuko, the Bitch, or  _ he _ did. She did know, though, that he shouldn’t have been buried in a suit. 

They had flown to Japan, first class, that spring for his funeral. The whole family had traveled together, for the first and last time--even cousin Lu Ten and Uncle!--and her four year old self had firmly, and confidently decided that this was a vacation. She couldn’t understand why everyone wore such drab and dark clothes, why everyone was so somber, and why she was scolded for laughing too loudly. 

“Azula!”  _ He _ had snapped. “Sit still and be  _ quiet _ .” 

The funeral was a long and boring affair. At the time she wasn’t even sure just  _ what _ a funeral actually was (she just knew that the Bitch had put her in an uncomfortable kimono with too many layers and the incense they were burning had given her a headache). But Zuzu had been quiet during those long hours, and for once she had followed his lead. 

They had buried him in their familial grave, a rare and luxurious tradition, and that was the last time she had seen her grandfather. (And she couldn’t help but think that he looked strange in a suit, and not quite like her grandfather.) 

“Mama?” Azula had called in an uncharacteristically small voice. 

The Bitch turned away from the window she was looking out of, dark circles under her eyes making her look much older than she actually was. The day had been long and it was dark when they returned to the family home, a mansion really, isolated from the rest of Japan. When they returned, candles were lit. 

“Yes, Azula?” She sighed out, moving over to her daughter’s side. 

“Why did you light a candle?” She scrunched up her nose, a habit she’d be scolded out of in a year or two. 

Her mother, the Bitch, took a moment to gather her words. “We do it so the soul has a safe journey. Go to sleep now, okay?”

Azula said nothing, but that night she had a dream she was drowning while her mother peered over her. And Azula had tried to call out for her, her little arms, still chubby with infanthood, had tried reaching out for her, but her mother just stood and watched. Azula saw herself, being thrown next to her grandfather, dirt tossed over her, and watched as everyone stood over her so quietly. (And cried, because suddenly she was trapped behind glass and no one could see her. She cried as she watched everyone head home and as her mother blew out  _ her _ candle.) 

(And she had wondered for a long time if someone had already blown out her candle a long time ago.)

The closer finals came, the more Azula found herself alone. There was a nagging sense of doom that seemed to follow her, and at first it had filled her with fear, but now it was more of a nuisance than anything. And there was this shakiness to her, an unnatural and familiar feeling, one that her body knew as inherently her own. The apartment was so quiet in a deafening sort of way and she had taken to playing Zuko’s CD’s louder than was necessary, hoping to chase off the indescribable feeling away (she was never very good with words, that was more of the Bitch’s thing). It never worked. 

It was a Tuesday, after drinking a few too many mimosas at a cafe near the apartment, after a night of drinking a bottle and a half of wine, when she found her own little slice of heaven. An oasis in this shithole of a town. Her own little paradise, if she were to be poetic. It was a small dance studio, for amateurs really, nothing like what she had trained in before, that had gone out of business--and needed a new renter. 

(And Azula had plenty of money and plenty of time, and $1200 a month was nothing really.)

It was a Tuesday when Azula signed the lease to a dance studio in downtown Portland, Maine. Her signature was like artwork, her hand did not shake as it held the cheap ballpoint pen, and her name (a forbidden and shameful thing) looked as if it belonged in the Louvre. She wasn’t sure why it felt like she was signing her soul away. 

(Probably because she was.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter was short but I’m actually not that sorry :)) Comments and such are appreciated.


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! How are you guys?? I’m still on bed rest but my bby bought me the most gorg bouquet of flowers <3 <3
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Eating Disorders, Behavior from Eating Disorders, Delusional Thinking, Self Grandiose Thinking

Sweat dripped down her neck to the small of her back in the most delicious and sinful way. Her hair, now too short to be pulled back in her standard hairstyle, was pulled back messily in a short knot, smaller strands sticking out in a cartoonish manner, and her bangs were plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her body was  _ glistening _ , showing her fruits of her labor in the most satisfying and forbidden way. 

Her intentions had started out innocent enough, she had just wanted to have  _ peace _ . (A place where she could be alone, where no one knew about Moscow, where no one could watch and judge, where her paranoia died--shriveled and dried out without her--where  _ he _ could not find her.) She had found a place and she almost offered a prayer of thanks, but she wasn’t that far gone,  _ that _ out of her mind, and her intentions had grown much more sinister, and much more tainted. 

(She knew what she was doing wrong. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this. But she was.)

The first time she had ever worn pointe shoes was when she was nine years old, after her father had berated her third instructor and bullied her into letting her wear pointes (her third instructor, a lady named Yvette with a failed dancing career, had always been somewhat of a coward--very different from her other instructors in the past and future), and the moment Azula put her  _ Grishko _ \--custom fit--pointes on, she knew she was destined for something great. 

“So,” She heard a voice behind her. 

She had startled and thought for a stupid, split second that  _ he _ had found her, and had felt herself flinch. But she was Azula fucking Hassuru, and she had answered the voice with a kick before taking a defensive stance she learned from Zuko (back when he was still just Zuzu and the Bitch was still Mom). 

“Ow!”

“Oh, it’s just you, Sokka.” 

The boy with pretty blue eyes and contagious laugh glared at her. “Yeah, it’s _just_ _me._ ”

He looked around the studio, awkwardly avoiding eye contact--and if it were just a year ago she would have laughed at that, before bending down just far enough he’d look down her neckline, showing off that she was working out  _ without _ a bra--but today it just made her feel guilty. He took in the barre, it was old but sturdy, something Azula has come to appreciate, and he scrunched his nose at the dust she couldn’t reach. 

(She had felt pride in the fact that she cleaned this entire studio by herself. With her own bare hands. But now she felt inadequate under his gaze. She had never cleaned anything a day in her life, and even living with her brother the most she has done was make her own bed. But now she was conscious of each corner she couldn’t reach to dust, how the mirror was streaky because she didn’t know  _ glass cleaner _ was a thing, and how the floors didn’t shine like her previous studios.) 

He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “So, this is what you’ve been up to.” 

Her shoulders tensed. “Yeah, and?” 

His gaze softened, and suddenly she felt like she was five again and was being scolded for petting the stray cat too roughly. He looked at her, with those pretty blue eyes so much like his sister’s, but so very different as well. ( _ Oh, they’re just like the ocean! _ ) She felt her face flushing in embarrassment, or was it shame? 

“Azula,” He said her name so gently she wanted to cry. “I’m not stupid. I know what you’re doing.” 

And suddenly she was angry, so angry and so surprised at how fast rage took over her body. She felt like Zuko for a moment, until she remembered that this anger was righteous, that she was God and how  _ dare _ he claim to know her. She was angry because she had fallen so low that she was dancing in  _ secret _ in a second rate dance studio. She was angry because her body was failing in ways it never had before. She was angry with Zuko. She was angry that her hands shook too much to mend her pointe shoes. She was angry with the world. She was angry with  _ him. _ (And she was angry with herself.)

She whispered, “Oh?” And it had come out so quietly, a warning hiss before the viper strikes. 

(But he would not back down.)

“Azula,” He said again. Still so gently, but with a firmness she didn’t have the energy to argue with. “I know about your eating disorder. I know about Moscow. And I know what you’re doing now. We’re all worried about you.  _ I’m _ worried about you.”

She went back to stretching on the barre, facing away from him, because the first time in a long time she felt tears burning the back of her eyelids. “What exactly am I doing, Sokka?”

He sighed. “Azula, this isn’t healthy. You’ve lost the weight you  _ healthily  _ gained back these last few months--and even that wasn’t a lot, ‘La. I don’t know how to say this. Katara is better with this, better with a lot of things. But I’m not blind, I see where this is going and this isn’t going to end well.” 

She turned around, pride filling her when she saw her vertebrae show through her thin skin, feeling sudden justice, sudden strength filling her body and words. “You’re talking nonsense. I literally have no clue what you were trying to say.” 

Sokka threw his hands into the air in frustration. “I’m not good with words, okay?”

“Clearly.” 

There was silence. 

“You know I’m going to have to tell Zuko about this. Right?” 

And suddenly she was screaming, she doesn’t know why, but it was happening. “Oh, you would just  _ love _ that, wouldn’t you?” 

He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t good with words, so why should he keep trying? He did, though, look at her in a way that made her shift her stance. It was the same look he always gave Katara, a look she couldn’t fully read nor understand, and she felt like she was being mocked. And then he had stepped forward and pulled her into a hug that crushed her into his body. 

“You would love that, wouldn’t you?” She whispered this time.

“No, Azula.  _ I _ love you.  _ We _ love you.”

And she stood there, covered in sweat and shame, and didn’t know how to tell him (or anyone else, really) that she was getting bad again, and this time she wasn’t sure she’d make it out alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve made it this far into the story, thank you so much!


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, your girl is back at it again :) How are you guys? I think that my new medication is actually working and I am so hopeful. My friend, who I haven’t seen in months, came and visited with me today. It was such a nice surprise :))) <3 <3
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Talk of Poor Coping Mechanisms

Zuko had been playing  _ O Fortuna  _ on repeat for a little over an hour now, and Aang was starting to grow worried. The last time Zuko had played  _ O Fortuna _ on repeat was when his father had tried bribing him back to California. The time before that, Azula had the Moscow incident.  _ O Fortuna _ never meant anything good, and Aang was starting to worry. It was as simple as that. 

_ O Fortuna _ meant sudden bursts of anger, broken bathroom mirrors, and impulsive decisions. It meant for late nights and bad habits (he knew that his friend, his  _ best _ friend, still had a half a carton of cigarettes in his coat pocket, he knew about the empty bourbon bottles in the recycling bin, he knew about how he’d run until he was physically sick, he knew his friend, and he knew him well). It meant for his friend to deny himself things that actually brought pleasure to him, the very few things he actually enjoyed in life. It meant misery and Aang wouldn’t allow for it to happen again. 

The song was reaching its climax, the crescendo setting Aang’s nerves ill at ease. He made a move for Zuko’s bedroom before he thought better of it. Zuko was a private man, his outbursts often led people to believe otherwise, but Aang knew better. So instead, Aang did something he was never very good at, and waited. (Because Zuko was like a wild animal, he could be kind and loving, but when hurt he’d lash out.) 

Back when they had first moved to Maine, before they knew their friends (who had very quickly grown to be their family), before even Toph had joined the picture, just when it was the two of them, Aang had foolishly believed that the two of them would never have to hear that damned song again. He was proven wrong within three days, after Zuko received a phone call from his adoring Uncle (a man Aang respected and healthily feared, he could never and would never forget that man’s past, but he could forgive. Despite Zuko’s adoration and love for his Uncle, they rarely spoke, and always claimed  _ no news is good news _ , and Aang was sure he’d never fully understand their relationship). That phone call had caused  _ O Fortuna _ to be played for a solid six hours, and the only other noise that could be heard were occasional shouts of anger and the sound of him punching through their apartment’s thin walls--the two of them that next week quickly learned how to mix and apply plaster to mend Zuko’s bedroom.

Aang took a deep breath, there was a moment of silence and he knew that meant there would only be a few seconds before it would loop, and said a quick sutra for guidance. (He ignored how he stumbled over the words despite it being in his native tongue, he ignored that feeling that had been growing in his chest since he got that letter in the mail--the very same one that made him go out for a run by himself, knowing that it made his friends worry, the one that he knew would someday come, the one that he hid away, hoping if he ignored it long enough that it would go away.) The song started again, in that heavy and fearsome way it was prone to, and Aang opened his friend’s bedroom door. 

“Zuko?” He called over the music.

His friend sat at his desk, now pushed under the window to make room for the futon. His room had been rearranged quite differently from when they had first moved in. A lot has changed since last autumn. The futon was added, there was no way the siblings would share a bed, and there were new clothing racks--Azula had an overflowing closet full of clothes and had refused to downsize. 

Zuko looked out of place in his own bedroom, seemingly lost in his head, and Aang’s heart twinged in a funny way at that. He was sitting at his desk--the one now moved below the window to make room for the futon, the one he bought for Azula but was now the one  _ he  _ slept on--and looked so very, very small. (Aang wondered if that’s what Zuko would have looked like if they knew each other as kids. He hoped not, and he wanted that funny feeling in his chest to go away.) 

(He wondered if they would have been friends back then.) 

The song started to build up again and Aang knew his friend wouldn’t answer. He knew that in the same way he knew Zuko’s favorite color was orange, the same shade that sun was when it rose each morning in the east, even though he said his favorite color was red. He knew that in the same way he knew Zuko liked  _ jook _ with cinnamon and liked his food to be spicy. He knew that in the same way he knew Zuko was afraid of becoming like his father, the same way he he knew that there was a scar about the size of a nickel on his back from falling on a rock  _ just _ right, the way he knew about how he’d listen to Japanese podcasts because he missed the language. He knew all of this and more, because he  _ knew _ Zuko. 

“Zuko.” He called out again, this time louder. This time firmer. 

His friend, his  _ best  _ friend, his  _ family _ , twisted around to see who was bothering him. He scowled in his direction, but Aang didn’t take it to heart, and he sat himself down on the bed facing Zuko. Zuko, in turn, ‘politely’ turned his chair to face his friend--and Aang felt a spark of hope. 

“Zuko.” He said again for the third and hopefully final time tonight.

A moment of silence. The song was starting to build up again, almost reaching its climax. Zuko finally looked at his friend for the first time that night, taking in his dark circles and tired eyes (and felt guilty for a brief moment). He wanted to tell Aang about his day and how his  _ very _ soul felt like it was twisting and knotting, how it felt like a festering and aging wound. He wanted to shout towards his friend, his  _ best _ friend, his  _ brother,  _ how he was so confused and hurt, so very, very  _ hurt _ .

Instead, all he could warble out was, “What?”

The song reached its climax filling in the silence that sat heavily between the two boys (neither of them could call themselves men, they both felt so very, very young and very, very lost). Aang was about to probe him, his mind was telling him to scream at him to  _ tell me how to help you! _ And to command him to let him help him. But much to his surprise, it was Zuko who spoke up first.

“I had lunch with Sokka today.” 

“Did he call you a jerk fencer again? You know he’s only joking, right?” 

“It’s not that.” He buried his face into his hands. “It’s about Azula.” 

“Oh.”

Azula was a heavy topic. She was a heavy topic when they were still in high school together, she was a heavy topic before the Moscow incident, and she was a heavy topic now. She had been a heavy topic when she moved in, but Aang wouldn’t have her any other way. (At first he had been hesitant around her, afraid that if he did or said the wrong thing something bad would happen. But after she had joined him in meditation that one morning, back when it was still cold with winter and it was a time neither of them  _ really _ knew each other, they had bonded. Now, his mornings still started with silence, but he had a companion. Now, she was a part of his family.) Azula would always be a heavy topic, but Aang could handle that. 

(He just wanted her to heal.)

“Is it bad?” Aang asked.

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and thoughts are much appreciated. I hope that everyone is staying safe and healthy <3 ALSO if you haven’t listened to O Fortuna you should! It’s such a bop LOL.


	28. Chapter Twenty Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope you are all doing well! I am not LOL. Anyways I just wanted to let you all know that updates may come out a bit slower because life is really doing a number on me :) I am back in the hospital and I am actually kinda scared this time (／。＼) DISCLAIMER: I do not share Azula’s opinions on antiques, I am a huge collector :/
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Night Terrors, Eating Disorders, Graphic Depictions of Eating Disorders, Delusional Thinking

She was dreaming, she knew that, but that it didn’t seem to matter what she knew anymore. _This is just a dream. This is just a dream. This is just a dream. This is just a dream_. She was eight again, in her childhood home--the bathroom to be specific that the Bitch had decorated like they were still living in Japan--stifiling her tears. (She _knew_ this was just a dream, but she could swear she could taste the tears that rolled down her face. It made her want to vomit.) 

The tiled floor of her bathroom, the very same one her mother decorated like they still lived in that antique monstrosity back in Japan, the one she had to share with her dumb, stupid brother, was cold against her skin. Her knees, still knobby from childhood, were pulled so tight against her chest that it made it difficult to breathe, causing her whimpered breathing to come out sharper, more animalistic sounding than anything else, and her feet were bare. And suddenly she remembered that day, the day she sat in the bathroom, with the door locked, trying to hide her weakness, like it was yesterday. (She was practically screaming to herself that this was _just a dream_ , but it didn’t matter. Nothing she said mattered. Not anymore.) 

Her feet were unwrapped from their bandages--the bloody dressing tossed aside carelessly--her toes at funny angles and her one big toe was missing its nail. They were bloodied and bruised, mangled beyond recognition. She remembered this day, she wished she didn’t, but it was ingrained in her memory like a lot of things were. (Like the first day of sixth grade, when her father told her to start watching her weight before she brought shame to the family. Before she brought shame to the family like Zuko. Like the day the Bitch called her a monster for the first time. Or _him_.)

Her feet, which had just started to slow in its bleeding, had started to profusely bleed--as if someone had opened its floodgates from the inside of her body. She was drowning in her own blood, her lungs filling up with something thicker and warmer than water, and she felt so full. Full enough to burst at the seams. And then suddenly it felt as if she were sinking very slowly--her arms, now thin and bony, made no efforts in escape even though her mind screamed _survive, you stupid bitch!_ \--the sinking feeling felt as if her entire body were pulsating, compressing her until she’d disappeared. (In a way it brought her peace that this was _it_ , this was how she’d go.) 

She woke up before she could take her final breath in her dream. ( _It was just a dream._ ) 

It felt as if she should scream, and she almost did, but it died in her throat when she heard Zuko murmur in his sleep. During her first months sharing a room with her brother she had considered smothering him with her pillow--and at the time she could practically feel his struggles beneath her hands, grasping fruitlessly at the pillow, before his life slowly drained beneath her very body--but now she found it difficult to sleep without his obnoxious and stupid murmers. (She wished that weren’t the case.)

Azula forced herself to roll onto her side, her muscles aching in a deep and satisfying way, and that pain felt so good she had almost _purred_ like a God damned cat. Her bones have always ached and begged for mercy (something she’d never provide them), but now they felt so, very, very heavy. She liked that. (And just a couple of weeks ago that thought would have scared her, but now she was too tired to feel much of anything anymore.) 

The alarm clock, a shitty thing Zuko refused to replace, blinked 4:00 A.M. at her in faded red. For a moment, just a brief moment, she wanted to wake Zuko up (shake him so violently he would have no choice but to grumble out a _what, Azula?)_ Instead, she forced herself to sit up in bed--swallowing down her pleas of _oh God, Zuzu, I dreamt of the Bitch and my (our) childhood_ \--and rolled out of bed so quietly and slowly, that even her duvet rustled silently. 

She pulled her duffle bag, that was covered in Balenciaga’s stupid logo, out from under her bed before padding down the hall silently. Her body begged for mercy and for a moment she had almost given in, given into the calls of sleep and false promises that everything would be okay if she would _just give up_ , but she was stronger than that. She had to be. 

“Lala,” her cousin had once told her. “Perfection is something that will always be expected from us. Perfection never comes without pain.” 

Azula, nine years old and oh-so-aware of how the real world worked, no longer fresh faced with naive optimism that life would treat her well--even though she deserved to be worshiped like the god she was--had given her cousin, Lu Ten, such a scolding and adult look that he had almost backed down into submission. (She was getting good at that. Just like _him_.)

“Lu Ten,” She had said in a voice filled with disdain, something she had learned by mimicking him, but had soon become a master at. “Perfection is pain, but I desire nothing less than that.” 

He stood before her, tall and lean, looking so much like Uncle Fatso (but also so much better than him, because he never looked at her with pity and fear like that old man), with his hair pulled back in a traditional knot--just like Grandfather and that thought brought her a funny, and empty feeling that she pushed away--looking down at her in a way she couldn’t understand. (She still couldn’t understand.) But that look was soon gone and was replaced with that smile that was very much _Lu Ten_. 

“I just wanted you to know that you’ll always be perfect to me, even if you fail at something.” 

And suddenly that bitterness and hot anger--no, _rage_ \-- took over her. She felt like Zuko for a moment, hot headed and impulsive, as the words spilled out of her mouth. Her chest felt hot, so hot she was afraid her skin might boil off, her blood scorching its paths down through her very veins that reminded her she was _just_ a human. The words that came out of her mouth felt so wrong, so cruel, so very much like _him_ , that they had left a bitter taste on her taste buds. (She had tried to rid herself of that taste with the Bitch’s wine, but it had only made her feel worse.)

“I wish I could say the same thing about you.” 

(If she had known those would be the last words she had ever spoken to him she might have been crueler.) 

Her studio waited for her. It always did. (Sometimes she swore she could hear it calling out to her, pleading for her to come back, reminding her the control it had over her--the control it _gave_ her.) The sun was just starting to rise. She used to rise with the sun, just like her brother, but now she hardly ever slept, and found herself awake at odd hours. The sunrise gave her a breath of life (she felt like Uncle just thinking that), it was red. _Red sky in the morning sailors take warning._

People were just starting their days by now. Someone just down the street slammed their car door, probably frustrated that they had to live another fucking day. (And Azula felt something along the lines of empathy for that stranger.) And she watched them. Some moved hurriedly, others slowly, but all living the same damned lives (and suddenly she felt like vomiting, but her stomach had been empty for days now, and only the taste of self pity and fear could be found in her mouth).

She had taken to calling her studio _The Pit._ She fucking hated it. She could almost hear _his_ mocking voice, rubbing her face into her shame (with fake condolences in _his_ voice, telling her just how sad _he_ felt that she had fallen so far from grace). She could hear _him_ and _his_ now feral tone as she stood in front of the mirror that hung on the wall, as she brushed her hair back and out of her face, as she ignored how it fell in dark clumps that once shined like the gold she wore. She ignored the way _he_ sounded more like a beast than human, how the sound of _his_ voice echoed in her empty studio, the way it made her heart beat so fast (in panic) that she swore her ribs were vibrating. 

And she danced because she thought that would make the voice go away. The voice of shame that reminded her that she was some kind of knock off Icarus who flew too close to the sun. Her sun being fucking Moscow. The dancing did help some, _his_ voice became more and more distorted, still echoing in her empty studio, still echoing off of her dancing cadaver. (She felt herself brushing against perfection, almost there but never close enough.) 

Azula liked the way her body looked as she danced. Only when she danced. It told a story of perfection. A child prodigy who became a _god_. It showed the control that she mastered, over herself, and the world. The way she was all lines, fluid and graceful as she moved, the way her bones-- _no_ , her whole fucking skeleton--could be seen through her paper thin skin showed what she was capable of. And the way her stomach was so concave that her leotard, the very same one she ordered from the children’s sizes, was loose (pulled taut where her hips jutted out and if she were to stretch _just_ right, her ribs would move like water, like flames beneath the fabric). She liked how the only curves on her body were when she manipulated her body into new poses (and when she stood still her knobby joints added curves to her body’s lines). 

(She ignored the greyness in her skin and how her skin was pulled so tight she thought she would shed a new form.) 

While she didn’t achieve perfection she did achieve pain (and that was almost enough for her). The voice was gone now, it had warbled out into moaning and then silence about an hour or so ago, and all she could do now was look at herself in the mirror. Covered in sweat and shame, but the shame felt so, so, _good_. 

“Oh, _Agini_ , Azula.” A voice came from behind her. 

And for a brief moment she thought she was seeing things again, because there in the reflection behind her, was someone so familiar, someone she had longed for, for so long _(to whisper I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,_ into her hair as she held her close against her chest), was there behind her. But she had been taking her medication regularly now and she knew that they _kindasorta_ helped. (Except for _his_ voice.) She knew she wasn’t seeing things and she wished that she _was_. 

Azula pulled herself into first position, statuesque in her stance, and hoped that she appeared at least half as intimidating as she once was just a year ago. By the flinch she gave, taking a step back towards The Pits’ front door, it still was. 

“Oh,” She said in a sing-song tone, irritation dripping in her voice. “Which one dragged you here, Ty Lee? Was it Zuzu, the fucking cunt, or was it Mai?” 

But Ty Lee swallowed her fear, she was quite good at that, she had to be, and had pulled Azula into a sweaty, and tight embrace. She had whispered something to her, but Azula didn’t hear her. Azula couldn’t hear anything because everything was growing so bright in the room, and that didn’t seem right, but nothing did any more. And her heart was pounding so fast. (And she wanted to hear what she was saying because, _spirits_ , she missed her friend so much, but everything had happened so suddenly she wasn’t even sure if she was real anymore.)

“ _Oh, Azula_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader, thank you for making it this far in the story. I am so sorry that I keep going AWOL. Please, please, don’t continue reading if you feel as if this may trigger you. Also! I am so glad Ty Lee is finally here!!!! :))


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